Cuff Me (8 page)

Vincent forced himself to look at her fiancé again. He looked like Tom Fucking Brady. Even the first name was the same.

And yet… good-looking as the man was, something was off. Not off in that there was something wrong with the guy, but the man hadn’t once looked at Jill.

He was too busy working the room. Not even in a smarmy way, just the way of someone who made it his business to be liked.

Much like Jill.

He wouldn’t admit it to her when her mood was fluttering on the edge of cranky, but she might be onto something with the two of them being too much alike.

Almost as though their matching, ready smiles would cancel each other out.

“Does he play polo?” Vin asked. “He totally looks like the type of dude that would play polo.”

She gave him a look. “Stop. Just because he doesn’t wear a leather jacket doesn’t mean he’s preppy.”

“How much white does he have in his closet? Tell me honestly,” Vin said, glancing down at her.

She started to giggle, then slapped a hand over her mouth, as though catching herself. “Stop. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

Please don’t.

But of course, he followed her. It had to happen sometime. Might as well get it over with.

And as it turned out, Tom had all sorts of pretty manners to go with the pretty face.

Vincent hated him. Mainly because there was nothing to hate.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Tom said sincerely, reaching out to shake Vincent’s hand.

Ignoring the hand was tempting—very—but even he had his limits of rudeness, and endured a firm handshake.

“Jill’s said plenty about you,” Tom said, taking a drink of the flowery cocktail and not wincing in the least.

“Nothing good,” Jill chimed in cheerfully.

“I knew within minutes of talking to Jill about her job that you were her other half,” Tom said.

Vincent glanced at Jill then, curious how she would respond to that assessment, and found her watching him.

She looked away the second their eyes met, something fleeting and unidentifiable flashing across her face.

Vincent was saved from having to rummage up some requisite response when Elena appeared.

“You’re late.” She shoved a glass of something sugary and pink into his hand as she lifted to her toes and kissed his cheek.

Elena was dressed to kill as always in a form-fitting gray dress and high heels that, despite being light gray suede, were inexplicably clean.

The dirt was probably scared of her.

He glanced at his beverage. “Got any beer?”

His sister tapped a manicured fingernail against his hand. “You didn’t even try it.”

“Because there’s a flower floating in it.”

“It’s an edible flower. Did you know that some of the fancy grocery stores carry those in their herb section? It’s just this cute little box called edible flowers.”

Vincent stared at her. “Do I look like I would know that?”

Elena rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Tom and Jill. “Vincent here thinks that if he doesn’t grunt and scowl eighty times a day, we’ll all forget he’s a man.”

He lifted the glass to his face. Sniffed. It smelled like booze. That was promising. Vincent studied it more carefully, curious if there was a way to avoid the sugar rim. Nope.

He took a tentative sip.

“Well?” Elena asked, finally ripping her glare away from Tom. “What do you think?”

“It’s terrible,” he said.

Although, it wasn’t really. A little sweeter than he would have liked, and he’d have preferred a beer or a glass of red wine, but it was alcohol.

Tom’s hand found Jill’s back, and Vincent took another sip. Bigger this time.

“You
do
like the drink!” Elena said.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

The smell of familiar flowery perfume drew Vin’s attention to his grandmother, who materialized at his side with surprising speed considering her advanced years.

“Your mother got the wrong kind of prosciutto.”

“Nonna, there is no wrong kind of prosciutto,” Elena explained gently.

Vincent nodded, inclined for once to agree with his sister.

Nonna shook her head stubbornly. “No, she got it from that dodgy butcher on Staten Island when I specifically told her—”

Elena held up her hand. “Wait, why are either of you bringing prosciutto? I told you I was getting this catered.”

Nonna gave a furtive look over her shoulder. “Yes, I’ve seen your caterer. Wouldn’t know al dente pasta if it bit her in the ass.”

“Which is fine,” Elena explained through gritted teeth. “Because we’re not having Italian food.”

Nonna puffed up. “But we’re Italian.”

“Yes, but they’re not,” Elena said, gesturing at Jill and Tom. “And it’s their night, so I wanted to do something more traditionally American.”

“I’m sure we’ll love whatever you serve, Italian or not,”
Tom said, earning beaming smiles from both Nonna and Elena.

“Vin, you got a sec?” Jill interrupted, dragging Vincent toward the kitchen. “I had a thought on the case.”

“What’s up?” he asked. “Tell me you’ve figured out who the hell killed Lenora Birch, because the higher-ups are starting to get—”

“No, I don’t have a freaking clue,” she said. “I just need a drink. I need a minute.”

“Need a minute from… the man you’re going to marry?”

“Mmm,” she murmured distractedly as she glanced over her shoulder and then dumped her drink down the drain.

Jill reached for his drink and followed suit.

“I thought you liked sweet stuff,” he said.

“I do, but that drink was just wrong,” she muttered as she rummaged through Elena’s fridge.

She pulled out a bottle of white wine, which wasn’t Vincent’s preferred beverage, but at least it was flower-free.

“Come here often?” he said dryly, watching as she located Elena’s corkscrew and wineglasses without having to search.

“She hosts a lot of our girls’ nights,” she said, defiantly opening the bottle and pouring them two generous portions.

“Where you talk about boys and lipstick?” he asked, accepting the glass she handed him.

“God no,” she replied. “Mostly we talk about the kind of sex we’re not getting.”

Vincent choked on his wine.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“What kind of sex is that?”

He’d asked.

Jill merely looked at him over the rim of her wineglass before giving a little shrug. “You know. Hot. Raunchy. Often.”

He opened his mouth to respond, only to realize there was no response to that.

None.

Jill was already skipping out of the kitchen to rejoin the party.

Vin almost followed her, then stopped, jerked open the freezer door, and put his head in.

A few moments later, the frigid air of the freezer had helped cool his body.

But not his mind.

Raunchy sex. Jill Henley wanted hot, raunchy sex.

There wasn’t enough cold air on the planet to cool his mind from
that
visual.

A
s far as leads went, a retired actress who lived three hours away from the scene of the crime wasn’t much to go on.

But Jill and Vincent were officially out of suspects.

Every last one of Lenora Birch’s current and former lovers either had alibis or lacked motivation.

Jealous family members? None.

Bitter friends? None.

Disgruntled employees? None.

The latest lead—and it was a weak one—was Holly Adams, an actress whose career had revved to life about the same time as Lenora’s fifty years earlier.

But whereas Lenora’s career and reputation continued to grow over the years, Holly’s fizzled almost as quickly as it had taken off. Not because she’d lacked talent.

But the combination of a couple bad movie choices plus more than a few cheating scandals, and Holly had
been toppled—no,
thrown
—off the America’s Sweetheart pedestal.

Leaving Lenora with the spotlight all to herself.

It wasn’t exactly a unique story, but according to Lenora’s sister, Holly Adams had blamed Lenora for her fall from grace.

In addition, the two women had run into each other at a Broadway premiere just weeks before Lenora’s death, and the run-in had been icy.

Which was why Jill and Vincent were driving out to Connecticut to figure out if Holly’s anger had shifted from icy to white hot and murderous.

“I can’t believe we’re driving to the middle of nowhere on the ridiculous possibility that a seventy-two-year-old washed-up starlet made a three-hour trek into the city to push another starlet over a banister, then managed to get away without leaving a single clue,” Vincent grumbled.

Jill ignored his griping, all of her attention focused on the map on her phone. “Turn right here. Right! Here!”

He turned quickly with a curse.

“Oh wait,” she muttered when the phone gave her a rerouting message.

“Henley, I swear to God…”

“It’s not my fault,” she shot back. “I get almost no signal out here. The GPS keeps losing track of where we are.”

“It’s Connecticut, not Wyoming, how can it—”

“There,” she said, her arm whipping out, bumping against his chest. “There’s a sign for the Holly Haven. That’s it.”

Vincent pulled into the driveway and then slowed as they approached an enormous metal gate.

“I thought you said she was a washed-up actress,” he
said as he rolled down the window to dial the call box. “She’s apparently loaded.”

“She’s had a couple of wealthy marriages,” Jill said, leaning forward to peer onto the property while Vincent announced them.

The gate opened and Vincent drove forward on what seemed to be a private country club. The grass was perfectly manicured. The trees lining the driveway were evenly spaced.

“How big is this property?” he asked. “I don’t even see a house—”

And then they saw it.

“That’s because it’s not a house,” Jill said, her voice just a little bit awed. “It’s like a French chateau.”

“Yeah? You’ve been to a lot of those?” he asked as they both climbed out of the car, staring up at the enormous structure.

She felt a little pang at his casual question. She hated reminders that she’d never left the country. Never left the continent.

Never had anyone to travel with.

She pushed the maudlin thought aside. She had Tom now. Maybe for their honeymoon…

Vincent glanced up at the sky. “Henley, you did check the weather report before we left?”

“Yeah, that’s the first thing I do when we go off to interview a murder suspect,” she said sarcastically. “Check the weather.”

Then she too looked up at the sky and understood immediately what he meant. She may have grown up in Florida, but she’d lived in New York long enough to know what snow looked like.

They exchanged a glance. “Let’s make this fast,” Vincent said.

An hour later, it was clear that Holly Adams had other ideas.

“You just can’t know how lonely it gets around here,” she said with a bright smile. “I love to entertain, so you can imagine how excited I was to hear I was having guests!”

Jill hid a smile.

She was pretty sure that this was the first time that homicide detectives at the NYPD had been described as guests.

And Jill was definitely certain that it was the first time they’d been treated to a three-course meal.

The food had been amazing, although not quite as amazing as watching Vincent carefully eat butternut squash bisque with an itty-bitty spoon.

“So, Ms. Adams,” he said as the housekeeper set chocolate mousse in front of them. “About Lenora Birch…”

Holly sighed from where she sat proudly at the head of the table. The woman had refused to discuss the death of a “dear friend” while eating, but Vincent was apparently out of patience. Jill was surprised he’d made it all the way to dessert.

“Ms. Adams, can you tell us about the last time you saw Lenora?” Jill asked, leaning forward.

“Please. Call me Holly.” She fiddled with her spoon.

Jill studied the older woman, trying to get a read on her and failing.

She was beautiful, even in her mid-seventies. She was short and curvy, and even with her advanced age, Jill could definitely see the outline of what must have been a rather phenomenal figure back in her day.

She and Lenora must have made quite a pair, one tall, thin, and regal, the other short, curvy, and coquettish.

“We used to be friends, you know,” Holly said on a sigh. “Best friends.”

Her voice was just slightly petulant, although Jill wasn’t sure if it was from old wounds or annoyance that she was being questioned in the death of a former friend.

But the former part was why they were here.

“What happened? To the friendship, I mean,” Jill asked.

Holly spooned up a tiny bit of chocolate mousse and slipped it between coral-colored lips. “Isn’t it obvious? She shoved me out of the way so that she’d be the only Hollywood darling. Took all the prime roles, stole all the men—”

“All the men?” Vincent asked.

Holly waved her hand. “You know what I mean, Detective. All the good ones.”

“You’ve been married three times,” Vincent said dryly. “Were they the good ones?”

Holly huffed and gazed at him with sharp eyes.

Then she shifted her attention to Jill. “Your partner’s a cynic.”

Jill smiled. “A bit, yes.”

Holly’s hand glanced to Jill’s left hand. “I see you’re not. Married?”

“Engaged,” Jill responded.

Holly’s face lit up. “Oh, I do love a good engagement! They’re so much fun. I miss them.”

“More fun than the marriages themselves?” Vincent cut in again.

Jill’s lips twitched, but Vin brought up a good point.
All signs were definitely pointing to Holly Adams being spoiled and shallow.

But murderous? She just wasn’t sure. At all.

“So your and Lenora’s friendship ended. What caused the final break?” Jill asked, bringing their attention back to the case.

“Well.” Holly plucked at the skirt of her Chanel suit. “It was over a man.”

“Naturally,” Vincent muttered into his water glass.

Jill tried to kick him under the table, but the massive dining table was too large for her to reach.

“He was my beau first,” Holly said. “We met at Bemelman’s. You’ve been?”

Jill shook her head, and Holly clapped her hands together. “Oh, you simply must. It’s this lovely—”

“So how did Lenora steal him?” Vincent asked, his patience officially frayed.

Holly slumped again. “I invited her out to drinks with the two of us. I wanted her to meet him.”

Or wanted to show him off, Jill thought, taking a bite of rather excellent chocolate mousse.

“Anyway, the two of them fought like crazy,” Holly said. “I’d never seen anything like it. Hate at first sight. Or so I thought.”

Jill saw Vincent sit up straighter and wondered if he was getting one of his premonitions. Although over what, she had no idea. Holly Adams might be a vain snot, but Jill doubted she’d have killed a former friend over a decades-old grudge over a man whom neither had gone on to marry.

“Anyway,” Holly said moodily, “turns out all that ‘fighting’ was really something else.”

“They had an affair?” Jill asked, keeping her voice kind.

“They said they didn’t,” Holly said. “But Henry—that was his name—ended things with me. When I asked him why, he said he had feelings for someone else. Two weeks later, they showed up together at the premiere of Lenora’s latest film.”

“That upset you,” Vincent said.

Holly gave him a vaguely incredulous look. “Clearly you’ve never had another man steal someone of yours, Detective. Of course I was upset.”

Jill should have been watching Holly then. Should have been assessing the older woman to determine whether or not by
upset
she actually meant homicidal.

But instead she found herself watching her partner.

Something on his face just then. When Holly had said he’d never had another man steal someone of his…

Suddenly, Jill wanted to press. Wanted to know what Vincent was thinking right that very second, because it felt important—vital. As well as she knew Vincent (and she supposed she knew him as well as anyone), she had a sense that she was missing something.

“Ms. Adams, where were you the night Lenora Birch was murdered?”

Jill jumped to attention at that, her attention swerving back to Holly at Vincent’s direct question.

She had to admit, it was well played. Vin had a habit of being a bit too hasty with the accusations, and he could sometimes put suspects on edge too soon, but he was right to try to throw Holly Adams off her game.

And he’d succeeded given that the woman clutched at her necklace with white knuckles.

“Why, I—how dare you—”

“Oh, come now, Holly,” Jill said kindly. “You had a very public argument with Ms. Birch just days before she was murdered. Surely you knew two homicide detectives didn’t drive all the way out from New York just to share a meal.”

Holly glared at her, and for the first time, Jill found herself on the receiving end of a suspect’s irritation. Usually she played the good cop, but Holly was starting to rub her the wrong way.

The woman was lonely, true, but she was also petulant and manipulative—two flaws Jill had always found particularly irritating.

“I was here,” Holly Adams said finally, picking up her spoon and determinedly scraping at the last of her chocolate mousse. “I was here like I always am, alone like I always am.”

“So nobody can verify your whereabouts?”

She lifted a shoulder. “My housekeeper, of course. And Martin. He manages security and the occasional odd job around the house.”

Both were employees who could be easily bought, Jill thought.

Still, it was far-fetched. Possible, yes. Possible that Holly Adams could have found her way to the city, visited an old frenemy, and then, in arguing about old times, pushed her in a fit of rage.

But there was no proof. Not even circumstantial evidence.

Holly was sharper than Jill originally gave her credit for, because the older woman seemed to sense Jill’s lack of conviction and played on it.

She reached out a hand, although the table was so enormous it stopped several feet short of Jill before dropping delicately. “I didn’t kill Lenora,” she said. “I don’t even have the energy to dislike her anymore. When you’ll get to my age… you’ll see. You’ll understand. It takes a grievance far worse than a straying lover to carry on that kind of hatred for decades. We had a spat a few weeks ago, true, but it was more for old times’ sake than anything else. There was no real heat to it. I’m sure Lenora would say the same.”

“Except she can’t. Because she’s dead.” Vincent put his napkin down after this sharp deceleration and stood, indicating that the meal was over.

The interview was over as well. Jill knew there was nothing more to get out of Holly at the moment. She had that clammed-up look of a woman who was gearing up for a good sulk.

“May we speak with your housekeeper and this Martin?” Jill asked, standing as well.

Holly sniffed. “Of course. I have nothing to hide.”

As expected, the housekeeper and security guy backed up their employer’s claims that she rarely left the home. Apparently Holly hadn’t been away from the house except to see the show in the city on the night she argued with Lenora, as well as to a friend’s house for cocktails a couple nights earlier.

Jill didn’t see any of the classic warning signs that they were lying, but neither did she get that gut-level instinct that they were completely honest.

Though, that sort of people-reading hunch was more Vincent’s thing. Maybe he’d picked something up.

Vincent and Jill said a chilly good-bye to a thoroughly
pissed-off Holly Adams, who had left the dining room and now sat watching reruns of
I Love Lucy
in a fully decked-out media room.

“You can see yourself out, I trust?” Holly said, not looking away from the screen.

“We’ll manage,” Vin said with a roll of his eyes at Jill.

They barely managed. It took two wrong turns in the massive house before they found their way back to the formal foyer.

“That chandelier is bigger than my entire apartment,” Vin muttered.

“Probably costs as much too,” Jill said, pausing to take one last look at the opulent home. “It’s a little sad, isn’t it? All of this grandness and nobody to share it with?”

“Doesn’t have to be sad. Some people like being alone.”

She glanced at him knowingly. “You’re talking about you, huh?”

Her voice was teasing, but he merely looked away. Didn’t answer as he opened the door and started to head outside.

Vincent skidded to a halt and when Jill glanced around him, she knew why.

The sky had made good on its threat of snow.

Lots of it.