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She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. “Right. So, any guesses?”
“Not now.”
“Or you just aren’t saying?”
“Steffi, you know I don’t bring anything to your office before I’m ready.”
“Just promise me—”
“No promises.”
“Promise no one else will get first shot.”
“No pun intended.”
“You know what I mean,” she said crossly.
“Mason will assign the case,” he said, referring to Monroe Mason, Charleston County solicitor. “It’ll be up to you to see that you get it.”
But looking at her in the mirror and seeing the fire in her eyes, he had no doubt that she would make that a priority. He brought the car to a halt at the curb. “Here we are.”
They alighted in front of Lute Pettijohn’s mansion. Its grandiose exterior, befitting its prestigious South Battery address, was a layering of architecture. The original Georgian had given way to Federal touches following the Revolutionary War. There followed the addition of Greek Revival columns when they were the antebellum rage. The imposing structure was later updated with splashes of Victorian gingerbread. This patchwork of architecture was typical of the Historic District, and, ironically, made Charleston all the more picturesque.
The three-story house had deep double balconies lined with stately pillars and graceful arches. A cupola crowned its gabled roof. For two centuries it had withstood wars, crippling economic lulls, and hurricane winds, before sustaining the latest assault on it—Lute Pettijohn.
His well-documented restoration had taken years. The first architect overseeing the project had resigned to have a nervous breakdown. The second had suffered a heart attack; his cardiologist had forced him to retire from the project. The third had seen the restoration to completion, but it had cost him his marriage.
From the elaborate ironwork front gate with its historically registered lantern standards, down to the reproduction hinges on the back doors, Lute had spared no expense to make his house the most talked about in Charleston.
That he had achieved. It wasn’t necessarily the most admired restoration, but it was certainly the most talked about.
He had battled with the Preservation Society of Charleston, the Historic Charleston Foundation, and the Board of Architectural Review over his proposal to convert the ancient and crumbling warehouse into what was now the Charles Towne Plaza. These organizations, whose purpose was to zealously preserve Charleston’s uniqueness, control zoning, and limit commercial expansion, initially had vetoed his proposal. He didn’t receive permits until all were assured that the integrity of the building’s original brick exterior would not be drastically altered or compromised, that its well-earned scars would not be camouflaged, and that it would never be defaced with marquees or other contemporary signposts that designated it for what it was.
The preservation societies had harbored similar reservations about his house renovation, although they were pleased that the property, which had fallen into a sad state of disrepair, had been purchased by someone with the means to refurbish it in a fashion it deserved.
Pettijohn had abided by the rigid guidelines because he had no choice. But the general consensus was that his redo of the house, particularly the interior, was a prime example of how vulgar one can be when he has more money than taste. It was unanimously agreed, however, that the gardens were not to be rivaled anywhere in the city.
Smilow noticed how lush and well groomed the front garden was as he depressed the button on the intercom panel at the front gate.
Steffi looked over at him. “What are you going to say to her?”
Waiting for the bell to be answered from inside the house, he thoughtfully replied, “Congratulations.”
Chapter 4
But even Rory Smilow wasn’t that heartless and cynical.
When Davee Pettijohn gazed down the curving staircase to the foyer below, the detective was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring either at his highly polished shoes or at the imported Italian tile flooring beneath them. In any case, he appeared totally focused on the area surrounding his feet.
The last time Davee had seen her husband’s former brother-in-law, they were attending a social function honoring the police department. Smilow had been presented an award that night. Following the ceremony, Lute had sought him out to congratulate him. Smilow had shaken Lute’s hand, but only because Lute had forced it. He had been civil to them, but Davee surmised that the detective would rather rip out Lute’s throat with his teeth than shake his hand.
Rory Smilow appeared as rigidly controlled tonight as he had been on that last occasion. His bearing and appearance were military crisp. His hair was thinning on the crown of his head, but that was noticeable only because of her bird’s-eye view.
The woman with him was a stranger to her. Davee had a lifetime habit of sizing up any other woman with whom she came into contact, so she would have remembered if she had met Smilow’s companion.
While Smilow never looked up, the woman seemed avidly curious. Her head was in constant motion, swiveling about, taking in all the appointments of the entryway. She didn’t miss a single European import. Her eyes were quick and predatory. Davee disliked her on sight.
Nothing short of a catastrophe would have brought Smilow into Lute’s house, but Davee chose to deny that as long as possible. She drained her highball glass and, making certain not to rattle the ice cubes, set it on a console table. Only then did she make her presence known.
