Devil's Own (10 page)

“What do you think?” Hughes asked in his grumbling manner, staring at her retreating back angrily. It had been a smart move on his part not to reveal that the murder victim wasn’t Florian Talbot. Until the police had a better idea as to his true identity, tight lips prevailed.

“She sure doesn’t seem distraught over the prospect of Florian’s death,” Niall remarked quietly. “Not that Florian is dead. God only knows where he is.”

“The body—whoever it is—was still in full rigor when the CSU came on the scene,” Hughes said. “That matches with the ME’s estimated time of death.”

Niall nodded. A human body started going into rigor mortis during the first six hours after death. Rigor became full during the following six hours and then lasted for another twelve hours before slowly dissipating. If John Doe was in full rigor around 2:00 p.m., his time of death was indeed between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m. “Yeah. So, who’s next?”

Hughes smirked. “Your call, hotshot.”

“Jerk.” Niall grinned. “Let’s tackle the matriarch.”

“I like the way you think, my friend.”

A
S
THEY
walked toward the study, Niall spoke softly. “For the dead guy to fool these people—if they indeed were fooled, even for a second—he must’ve looked a lot like Florian Talbot. From Angelina’s statement, the only one who fits the bill is Titus. And he’s MIA.”

Hughes shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Muffled voices came from the study, one of the double doors ajar, as the two men approached. With a single knock, without waiting to be bidden entry, Hughes walked in, Niall hot on his heels.

“What’s the meaning of this interruption?”

Millicent Marsden’s face was known from the society pages, and no one could have portrayed the thrice-married lady with accuracy. In her early sixties, she looked younger, her skin like white silk stretched over a delicate bone structure. She wore a classic black dress befitting the upper crust, along with the appropriate amount of jewelry, and her white-gray hair had been combed to the back of her head in a bun. A deep frown gave her a moping expression, though in her youth she must have been quite the looker, Niall thought.

“Hughes, Seattle PD,” Hughes introduced himself with a flip of his badge in his wallet. “Mrs. Marsden?”

She nodded, more than displeased. “I’m Millicent Marsden. This is Oswald Marsden, my son, and this is Deon Delaney, the family solicitor.”

Her son, Oswald, was in his midforties, a tall, gangly man in a gray sweater, dark slacks, and a natural white dress shirt under the sweater. Everything about him bespoke a gray man, a person who blended into the shadows, unseen, forgotten. He had no distinguishing marks or features at all, and Niall was certain five minutes after they parted he would no longer recall a single thing about the man’s appearance.

The other man, Delaney, was also in his forties, but everything about him screamed prestige, class, and wealth, from his expensive business suit and silk tie to his gold watch and jeweled tiepin. A high-priced lawyer, if there ever was one, Niall concluded. Startlingly blue eyes locked with his.

“Mr. Delaney, is it?” Hughes rechecked, and the man nodded. Delaney’s hair was still dark, with silver only at his temples. His tanned complexion had to come from a bottle or a tanning booth, not from these rainy, cloudy latitudes. “What’s your business here?”

Niall listened, knowing full well the purpose of the question. Hughes was giving an impression of a rude, dumb cop, an image he would dispel at his leisure. The alternative, a good-guy routine, would be played with other people, but those on the highest rungs of the social ladder revealed more when angry. Suspects and culprits wouldn’t know what hit them. Niall was well versed in this subterfuge, having learned it—and a variety of others—from his father and Hughes, and he chuckled inwardly.

“Mr. Delaney is here to oversee the legal matters of my deceased nephew,” Millicent stated icily.

“You mean the will?” Hughes clarified.

Deon Delaney smiled politely but shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Florian Talbot’s last will and testament is held up in probate court, pending the findings of your investigation, Mr… um, Hughes, was it?”

Niall suppressed a cringe. Lawyers could play this game as well as cops, or even better at times.

Delaney turned to Millicent, looking mildly apologetic. “Again, I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Marsden. But I’m afraid I must return to the office. Please, feel free to contact me if and when there are any new developments.”

As the attorney prepared to leave, Hughes remarked casually, “Counselor, I trust you know better than to remove any documents from the crime scene, legal or otherwise.” It wasn’t a question.

Delaney offered a sly smile. “Of course, Detective. I would never be found guilty of such a grievous, illegal act.” Then he bowed his head ever so slightly and was gone a moment later.

“Mother, I will, um, go make some tea.” Oswald’s voice was so low and timid it was hard to discern his words. He practically mumbled, and his jerky movements seemed nervous. He seemed like the stereotypical momma’s boy, but Niall tried to shake the image since he didn’t know the man well enough to judge.

“Yes, yes. Stop bothering me.” Millicent was indeed an iron lady, and with a whisk of her hand, she dismissed her son, who vanished from the room like a mouse. A surprising feat for someone of his stature. “Now. How may I help you?” Her tone indicated that helping the police was farthest from her mind.

“We’d like you to recount the events of last night for us,” Hughes said professionally. Millicent sighed, as if bored already, but still nodded her acquiescence. “You’re Florian Talbot’s aunt. Were you close?”

Millicent looked reticent. “No more and no less than with anyone in the family.”

Ouch
. Niall held back another cringe. This woman was going to make things difficult for them. “When did you last see Florian Talbot alive?” Niall asked, just to remind her there were other people present, too, and that she didn’t have the luxury of not answering their questions. As far as she knew, she was a potential suspect.

“In the afternoon the day before. I saw him in the study briefly. He was working on his computer here, and I didn’t interrupt him. He likes his privacy.” She blinked several times, her face a stony mask, and she swallowed convulsively. “I mean, Florian
liked
his privacy in here.” She lifted her chin and became the consummate lady once more, despite tense confusions.

“He often worked in here alone?” Hughes asked.

“Yes, he did. Florian took care of most of the family business matters, as well as all our financial affairs, right here in the study. Said he liked the quiet here.” A shadow passed over her face, as though she had recalled something puzzling. Niall locked the memory away to ask about in the future.

“When did you see him next?” Hughes asked.

Millicent’s lower lip trembled ever so slightly, and there went the blinking again. “The next I saw him he was being carried away on a gurney yesterday afternoon. He was dead. A sheet covered the gory details, thankfully.”

“You didn’t see him that morning? You were up and about before anyone else.”

This line of questioning relaxed Millicent, and a soft, condescending smile rose on her lips. “I have a strict morning regimen, one I will not deviate from. I have no time nor the slightest inclination to socialize with anyone before breakfast. So no, I did not see Florian in the morning.” Her nose wrinkled a bit. “I assumed he was sleeping off his, uh… I mean, I assumed he’d still be asleep.” She coughed a little to disguise the slipup.

“You weren’t awake during the commotion in the night?” Niall asked.

Millicent waved a hand about. “My bedroom is on the other side of the house. And I slept like a log throughout, if you must know.”

“Then why did you assume Florian was sleeping off his hangover?” Hughes narrowed in on the minor discrepancy.

Millicent actually let out a sharp laugh, like a dry and snarky bark, really. “Because, Detective, my nephew had his addictions, and most days he wrestled with his inner demons. His drinking or drug habit was not my concern. In fact, on more than one occasion he made it quite clear my input, advice, or meddling, as he put it, was not welcome. So yes, I naturally assumed he was hung over a toilet bowl or still passed out. He wasn’t my son. Not my responsibility.”

“Did you approve of Florian’s marriage to Angelina Yates?” Niall asked then.

Her surprise was evident in her parted lips and widened eyes. “No, I was not. She was utterly unsuitable. Far too classy for the likes of Florian and his… acquaintances. I’m glad she got out before anything bad happened.”

Niall and Hughes exchanged glances. Worse than Florian being bashed in the head with a lamp? “Bad?” Niall repeated, trying to tamp down his incredulity.

“Yes.” Millicent rolled her eyes. “I mean that ridiculous group of Florian’s, frolicking in the nude at night in the park. Simply unfathomably bad taste and poor judgment.”

“You disapprove of, um, Satanism?” Niall asked, hoping his tone wasn’t judgmental.

Lightning flashed in Millicent’s eyes. “I disapprove of any religion that allows it is acceptable to do as you please all the time, not caring about the consequences. If everyone acted like a loon, society would crumble.”

“Perhaps it should crumble,” a soft voice spoke from the doorway, startling all three in the room.

A
FRAIL
young woman, a girl really, stood on the threshold. She appeared somewhat awkward, like a newborn foal. Her frilly white summer dress, long blonde tresses, and the coy look under her long lashes all gave the impression of innocence and youth. But her words soon dispelled that impression.

“Society is made up of people who don’t really
understand life.” The look in her eyes, wicked and unabashed, belied her demure stance. “Hypocrites, cowards, abstainers, bigots. Only our Lord Satan represents the truth. That we are vicious and self-serving, the basest of animals. Our only task is to glorify our spiritual development by indulging ourselves in every sin since the dawn of time. That is the wisdom of his teachings. The ultimate. Society? Pfft. What does it understand, made up of more mice than men?”

Niall stared at the lovely, nubile young creature—and her words gave him a chill. Yes, he did understand wishing to indulge in the many pleasures life had to offer. But self-involvement, cruelty, anarchy, chaos? Those weren’t parts of him he wanted to unleash onto the world simply for the sake of his alleged spiritual growth.

This must be what Gus had spoken of, the part of Satanism he didn’t feel at all comfortable with. A large part of Niall could relate, but he chose to try to keep an open mind. It did no good to alienate any potential witness at this point. That was Hughes’s job.

Millicent glared, not hiding any of her contempt for the girl Niall now knew to be Ella, a member of Florian’s so-called coven. “You have nothing to do with polite society, Ella, or society at all. Period. So why don’t you remove yourself from the company of your betters?” Then she smiled sweetly, like a gracious hostess. “Oh, and you’ll be moving out of this house today. Effective immediately, you’re leaving. And please, do fight back with all your sinful tackiness, so I may indulge myself in seeing big men carry you out of here, kicking and screaming. Yes, I think that would please me greatly.”

Niall expected the tension levels to rise to high heaven, and his body grew taut, ready for any physical acts of confrontation.

What they got, however, was Ella chuckling as if without a care in the world. “Oh, Millicent, how amusing. Have no fear. I won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. I’ll be staying right here in this house, where your boring dilettante wit will delight me for years to come.” She lifted her chin in defiance and danced away, humming some pop tune from the radio.

Niall and Hughes exchanged a worried glance. Did Ella know Florian Talbot was not dead?

Not that they knew for certain whether Florian was dead or alive. After all, if he was alive, where was he? And if he was dead… well, where was he?

But how could Ella know? She could have recognized the body, or perhaps she was the killer herself. Suddenly, Niall remembered discussing the fact that the body wasn’t Florian with Hughes in the foyer. Had Ella been there and overheard them? But the foyer was a cavernous open space, and apart from the retreating Nola, no one else had been present. Niall was forced to dismiss the thought.

Hughes interrupted Niall’s contemplations when he said, “Mrs. Marsden, would you be so kind as to show us the room where, um, the deceased was found?”

Obviously still upset over Ella’s conduct, Millicent pursed her thin lips in frustration. “Of course, if you’d like. This way, please.” And like the flagship of a navy, she sailed past the two men with quiet dignity.

“T
HEY
REALLY
are a lot alike,” Hughes commented,
scratching his head.

“Yeah,” Niall agreed.

It was indeed clear that the two huge bedrooms at the end of the hall mirrored each other exactly, right down to the furnishings. Angelina had told them the one on the left was her bedroom with Florian, while the one on the right was empty of occupants. Apparently she had not known about Florian’s other sleeping arrangements across the hall, even though he did not sleep next to her every night.

Both rooms had a huge four-poster bed against the back wall, four tall windows with red velvet drapes, a vanity, a settee, a bureau, a wardrobe, and a bookshelf. Everything in one room was also in the other room, only in reverse order. The color tones were muted, the furniture plush and rich, and the overall feel heavy and drowsy.

Angelina had hit Florian on the head with a lamp in the leftmost room, while the actual dead body had been found in the right-side room. Niall and Hughes stood in the hallway, glancing between both rooms, searching for discrepancies and anything that might be a clue.