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Cool night air fragrant with magnolias enveloped them. The muted sunlight offered only the slightest glow. Honestly, with the carpets of soft green grass, flower patches thriving and trees swaying in a gentle breeze, Jane felt as if she’d stumbled into a dream.
He opened the passenger door and even held her elbow as she eased into the seat none too gracefully.
“These pencil skirts are no joke,” she grumbled. Much more difficult to maneuver in than her usual fit and flares.
“I promise you the skirt is worth every hardship…to me.” His husky voice and heated gaze sent her heartbeat into another dizzying rush.
By the time he settled behind the wheel and drove down the road, she had almost recovered half of her good sense. The car smelled and felt like him. Spice and warmth and... perfection. How was she supposed to recover the other half of her good sense in these conditions?
“You want to small talk or get straight to convincing me we must secretly interrogate the happy couple for a specific piece of information?” he asked.
“Yes. That.” She twisted in her seat as much as the buckle would allow. “I’d like to learn about Jake’s past relationships and Tiffany’s financial state.” A need for money might point to the need to work with the Waynes to hunt for gold. “Oh, and if either of them likes to garden.”
“Most people don’t host dinner parties and invite an agent of the law if they’ve committed murder,” he pointed out.
“But some people do,” she replied without missing a beat. “I would. And for all we know, Tiffany and Jake hope to interrogate us. Oh! Speaking of possible murderers, what happened during Hightower’s interview with Robby? Did she learn anything?”
“He wasn’t arrested, but he wasn’t cleared either. Hightower is double-checking several of his statements, including the one about not meeting with Miss Irons the morning she died. There is a witness who put them together, claiming they spoke earlier that morning.”
“Who?”
“Hightower wouldn’t tell me because she knew I’d tell you. But she did admit she’s also looking into Blake Crawford. Like Fiona, she believes the man is innocent. Honestly, so do I.”
“Yeah. I do, too.” Jane bit her bottom lip. She’d crossed someone off her list at last, yet the remaining possibilities seemed endless. Suspects loomed everywhere.
The drive ended a few too-brief minutes later when he parked in the Hotchkins’s driveway, next to Jake’s polished-until-it-glistened black sports car. Again, Conrad opened the passenger door for her, then extended a hand to aid her emergence from the car. Instead of dropping her hand once she stood solidly on both legs, he twined his fingers through hers and held on.
Jane got more fluttery. They strolled to the porch, their sides brushing together. He rang the bell, and she glanced back at his sedan. Suddenly the urge to rush somewhere else, anywhere else, nearly overpowered her. Just so they could be alone instead of spending the evening with other people.
Tiffany and Jake answered the door only a few seconds later—together. They, too, held hands. He wore a tux; she wore a flowing white gown with endless layers of tulle. Jane’s eyes widened. They’d dressed as a groom and his very sexy bride. The skirt had a slit that almost reached her hip and a bodice so low, she was afraid two more guests were soon to pop out and attend the party. So different from Tiffany’s understated attire as a doctor’s wife.
They were both all smiles until the widow eyed Conrad up and down. She propped her hands on her hips, her lips in a faux pout. “Did Jane forget to tell you this was a costume party?”
“He’s in costume.” An idea hit Jane, and she decided to launch an experiment. Hopefully, Conrad would roll with it. “He’s a killer pretending to be a detective, and I’m the local journalist who is figuring out all his secrets. A match made in…well, somewhere.” She glanced between Tiffany and Jake, judging their reaction to her words.
Tiffany appeared dismayed, while Jake conveyed confusion.
Hmm. Results of experiment: inconclusive. Either their responses were genuine and totally normal or fake and pointing to guilt.
The widow Hotchkins recovered quickly. “Welcome. Please, come in.” She and Jake eased back. Still holding hands.
Conrad ushered Jane inside, her high heels tapping on the black-and-white marble flooring in the foyer. Like the last time she’d visited, Tiffany guided the way through the home. This time she smiled, pointing out the paintings Jake had created just for her, confirming Jane’s suspicions that Jake was Art Amour. The widow offered minor details, like how he’d chosen a particular color palette because her lipstick inspired him.
They passed the vast sitting room where Jane had once stood awkwardly among a sea of mourning women after the not-so-good doctor’s demise. Any trace of the dearly departed was gone. Every picture. All mementos. Not a hint that he’d ever even existed. Now paintings by Tiffany’s soon-to-be new husband covered the walls.
