AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“August. London, Paris, Milan. I still got my fingers in some business, and she likes to shop. If you say I bought the paper, I bought the paper. So what?”
“It’s tied to the murder. If you could tell me where you were between midnight and three, night before last—”
He let out a bark of laughter, stood from where he’d crouched by the ball and gave her his full attention. “Young lady, I’m more than seventy. I’m fit, but I need my sleep. I play eighteen holes every morning, and before I do, I have a good breakfast, read the paper, and check the stock reports. I’m up every morning at seven. I’m in bed every night by eleven unless my wife drags me out to some shindig. Night before last I was in bed by eleven, and after making love to my wife—a process that doesn’t take as long as it once did—I was asleep. Can’t prove it, of course.”
He brushed her back, turned to the caddy. “Gimme the seven iron, Tony.”
She watched him set, sight, then smack the ball into a pretty arch. It bounced on the green and rolled to within about five feet of the cup.
From Hawthorne’s wide grin, she assumed it was a good shot.
“I’d like to speak with your wife.”
He shrugged, handed the club back to the caddy. “Go ahead. She’s over at the courts. Got a tennis lesson today.”
Darla Hawthorne was dancing around on a shaded court in a candy pink romper with a flippy skirt. She was doing more dancing than actual connecting with the ball, but she looked damn good doing so. She was built like a teenager’s wet dream, lots of soft, jiggling breast barely contained, and long, long legs shown off by the little skirt and matching pink shoes.
She was so evenly tanned, she might have been painted.
Her hair, which must have hit her waist when unrestrained, was tied back in a ribbon—pink, natch—and scooped through the hole in her little pink visor. It swung happily back and forth as she pranced over the court and missed the bright yellow ball.
When she bent over to retrieve it, Eve was treated to the sight of her heart-shaped butt in tight, high-cut panties under the skirt.
Her instructor, a hunky guy with lots of streaky hair and white teeth, called out direction and encouragement.
At one point, he came over to stand behind her, nuzzling her back against him as he adjusted her swing. She sent him a big, lash-fluttering smile over her shoulder.
“Mrs. Hawthorne?” Before the balls could start flying again, Eve stepped onto the court.
Tennis guy immediately rushed forward. “Boots! You can’t walk on this surface without the proper foot attire.”
“I’m not here to whack balls.” She held up her badge. “I need a moment with Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“Well, you have to take those off, or stand on the sidelines. We have rules.”
“What’s the problem, Hank?”
“There’s a policewoman here, Mrs. H.”
“Oh.” Darla bit her lip, and patting her heart walked over to the end of the net. “If this is about that speeding ticket, I’m going to pay it. I just—”
“I’m not Traffic. Can I have a minute?”
“Oh, sure. Hank, I could use a break anyway. Getting all sweaty.” She walked, with a lot of swinging hip, to a bench, opened a pink bag and took out a bottle of designer water.
“Could you tell me where you were night before last? Between midnight and three.”
“What?” Beneath the glow on her perfect oval face, Darla paled. “Why?”
“It’s just a routine stop in a matter I’m investigating.”
“Sweetie knows I was home.” Her eyes, mermaid green, began to swim. “I don’t know why he’d have you investigating me.”
“I’m not investigating you, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Hank walked over, handed her a small towel. “Any problem, Mrs. H?”
“No problem here, go flex your muscles someplace else.” Dismissing him, Eve sat beside Darla. “Midnight and three, night before last.”
