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“Do you honestly think they’ll suspect me of murder?” she asked.
“You’ll inherit a lot of money now.”
“There’s that, yes,” she conceded thoughtfully. “And then there’s the common knowledge that my late husband’s main goal in life was to pork as many of my friends—and I use the term loosely—as possible.
?
?I don’t know if he was working his way through them because they are, generally speaking, the most desirable women in Charleston, or if they were desirable to him only because they were my friends. Probably the latter, because Georgia Arendale’s ass is bigger than a battleship, but that didn’t stop him from taking her over to Kiawah for a day at the beach. I bet she got a serious burn because it would take a whole tube of Coppertone to cover that much cellulite.
“Emily Southerland has a complexion that would stop a clock, despite countless chemical peels, but Lute balled her anyway, in that ghastly downstairs powder room of hers—it has a faux fur toilet seat cover—at her New Year’s Eve party.”
Hammond laughed although Davee wasn’t trying to be funny. “While you, of course, were entirely faithful to your marriage vows.”
“Of course.” Letting the sheet slip an inch or two, she batted her eyelashes at him to underscore her lie.
“Yours wasn’t exactly a marriage made in heaven, Davee.”
“I never claimed to love Lute. In fact, he knew I didn’t. But that was okay because he didn’t love me, either. The marriage still served its purpose. He wanted me for boasting rights. He was the one man in Charleston with balls big enough to bag Davee Burton. In return, I…” She paused, looking pained. “I had my reason for marrying him, but it wasn’t the pursuit of happiness.”
She lowered her arm and shook her hair free while Sandro went to work on her lower spine. “You’re wincing, Hammond. What’s the matter?”
“Everything you say sounds like motive to commit murder.”
She laughed scornfully. “If I was going to kill Lute, I wouldn’t have gone about it like that. I wouldn’t have trotted myself downtown on a hot Saturday afternoon, when this city is crawling with stinky, sweaty Yankee tourists, toting a handgun like white trash, and shooting him in the back.”
“That’s what you would want the police to surmise, anyway.”
“Reverse psychology? I’m not that clever, Hammond.”
He looked at her in a way that said, Oh, yes, you are.
“Okay,” she said, accurately interpreting his expression. “I am. But I would also have to be industrious, and no one has ever accused me of inconveniencing myself, or sacrificing creature comfort, no matter what the reason. I’m just not that passionate about anything.”
“I believe you,” he told her, meaning it. “But I don’t think there’s any legal precedent for basing a defense on laziness.”
“Defense? Do you truly think I’ll need one? Will Detective Smilow seriously consider me a suspect? That’s crazy!” she exclaimed. “Why, he would come closer to killing Lute than I would. Smilow never forgave Lute for what happened with his sister.”
Hammond’s brow furrowed.
“Remember? Smilow’s sister Margaret was Lute’s first wife. Probably she was an undiagnosed manic-depressive, but marrying Lute was her undoing. One day she went over the edge and ate a bottle of pills for lunch. When she killed herself, Smilow blamed Lute, saying he’d been neglectful and emotionally abusive, never sensitive to poor Margaret’s special needs. Anyway, at her funeral, they exchanged bitter words that caused a huge scandal. Don’t you remember?”
“Now that you’ve reminded me, I do.”
“Smilow has hated Lute ever since. So I’m not going to worry about him,” she said, repositioning her hips on the table under Sandro’s guidance. “If he accuses me of killing Lute, I’ll just turn the tables by reminding him how many death threats he’s issued.”
“I’d pay to see that,” Hammond told her.
Returning his smile, she said, “You’ve finished your champagne. More?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ll have some.” While he was pouring, she asked, “Monroe Mason contacted you, I suppose? You’ll be prosecuting when they capture the killer?”
“That’s the program. Thanks for the recommendation.”
She drank from the flute he handed her. “For whatever else I am, Hammond, I’m a loyal friend. Never doubt that.”
He wished she hadn’t said that. County Solicitor Mason had informed his staff of his pending retirement. Deputy Solicitor Wallis was terminally ill; he wouldn’t seek the top office in the upcoming November election. Hammond was third in the pecking order. He was virtually guaranteed Mason’s endorsement as his successor.
