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“Thank you for your time,” Eric said gently. They had no information to offer, and they were so numb with grief that asking them any more questions would be abusive. “I’ll be in touch.”
He and Garvey walked out to the car. Garvey put his hands in his pockets, jingled his change. “Nothing there.”
“No. Maybe we’ll have better luck with the Dennisons.”
The Dennisons lived in Buckhead, which meant they were out of their jurisdiction, again, but Eric had called beforehand and requested an interview, and both Senator and Mrs. Dennison were supposed to be there. He’d kept the request general, because if the senator was involved in any way Eric didn’t want to tip him off ahead of time.
The Dennison family money, actually Mrs. Dennison’s family money, was evidenced by the massive gated entrance, with no house in sight behind the high rock wall. There was a keypad on the left, as well as a security camera. Eric lowered his window to press the alert button beside the keypad. A woman’s brisk voice came clearly over the speaker: “Yes.”
“Sergeant Garvey and Detective Wilder to see Senator and Mrs. Dennison.”
There was a delay while their names were evidently checked against a list, then the gate began to swing open. Eric exchanged a glance with Garvey, then drove through the entrance; he watched in his rearview mirror as the gate smoothly closed behind them.
The stamped concrete drive curved to the right, through a thick stand of various species of mature shade trees. Once they were past the trees the house came into view, set back to the le
ft, among more trees. It was like looking at something from a travel catalog. The massive house, crafted of golden stone, was three stories tall, with balconies and porticos and a five-car attached garage. All of the garage doors were lowered, so he couldn’t see the vehicles. Garvey grunted, and took out his cell. They didn’t have to see the cars, though it would have been nice to actually eyeball them. Records from the DMV would tell them exactly what vehicles were in the senator’s name.
Eric parked in front, and together they walked up to the double front doors, which were easily ten feet tall. He pressed his finger to the doorbell, and even from outside heard the reverberation of a bass gong on the other side of the doors. “What is this, a temple?” he muttered.
“Only if you’re Indiana Jones,” Garvey replied.
Because he hated being kept waiting on a step, Eric watched the second hand of his watch sweep around. When it hit fifteen, he lifted his finger to gong the house again, but before he could the left-side door was opened by a woman of indeterminate age, dressed in the most severe business suit he’d ever seen. “I’m Nora Franks, Mrs. Dennison’s assistant,” she said with as much emotion as an eggplant. “Please come in.”
They stepped inside. Eric eyed the woman with more than a little wariness. Nora Franks, his ass; he’d bet her last name was Danvers, and Rebecca’s ghost was flitting around somewhere, except he couldn’t remember if Rebecca had been a ghost or not. He’d read the damn book under protest, to pass his high school literature class, and he’d hated every minute of it. Maybe he had the details confused with Macbeth, or something.
“This way.” She led them across a marble-tiled floor, the heels of her sensible pumps clipping on the stone. A double-barreled grand staircase curved up on both the left and the right, meeting in a landing and merging to make the final five steps up to the second floor. A crystal chandelier at least as tall as he was hung like a giant faceted tear in the middle of the foyer, under which an inlaid table was precisely centered. The table held an enormous bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. He recognized the hydrangeas, because his mother had some, but he had no idea what the other flowers were. They smelled good, though.
Mrs. Danvers—shit, Mrs. Franks, and he’d better remember that or he’d slip up and call her the wrong name—paused beside a closed door on the left, and gave a light tap on the wooden panel. She had her head tilted close to the door; Eric didn’t hear the answer but she must have, because she opened the door.
“Ma’am, Senator … Sergeant Garvey and Detective Wilder.” Then she stepped back, gave both of them a brief nod as they moved into the room, and closed the door behind him. They hadn’t introduced themselves, Eric thought, so she must have been the woman who they’d talked to over the intercom.
The room they were in was a library, the walls dominated by floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves that were crammed with books of all sizes. Unlike some libraries, this one looked as if the contents were actually read. For one thing, the books weren’t arranged by size or color. Paperbacks were shoved in among hardbacks. Some were stacked on top of each other, some of them were spine out. Knickknacks dotted the shelves, too: candid photographs, pieces that looked like expensive sculpture mixed with what had to be cheap memorabilia from vacations, like the starfish that was propped against a stack of books.
He liked the room, Eric thought, and that surprised him, because he hadn’t expected to like anything about the Dennisons. He could keep an open mind about whether or not either of them struck him as being a good bet for their killer, but that had nothing to do with whether or not he personally liked anything.
But the woman who put aside her book and rose from a deep, rich brown leather chair where she’d been sitting with her feet curled under her … he liked her immediately.
“I’m Fayre Dennison,” she said in a straightforward manner, coming to them and holding out her hand. They each shook it briefly; Eric even liked that about her, the way she gripped firmly instead of extending a cold limp fish of a hand. She wasn’t a big woman, no more than average height, and slim in a lithe, athletic way that said she burned off calories in activity, not by restricting herself to a lettuce leaf every day.
She was striking. If Douglas Dennison had set out to get himself a wife who would be an asset in politics, he couldn’t have done any better if he’d had her designed. Fayre Dennison had shoulder-length platinum hair pulled straight back and caught in a black clasp at the nape of her neck. The style wasn’t softened by bangs or stray wisps, but her face didn’t need any softening; it was what it was, strong-boned but very feminine, with a faint cleft in her chin, straight dark brows, and eyes so dark they looked black against the whiteness of her hair. Her voice was brisk, her gaze both friendly and shrewd. She was casually dressed in white pants, a black top, and black flats, but on her the outfit looked like a million bucks. At a guess, Eric put her age at close to sixty, but that was more because of the authority that sat so easily on her slim shoulders than any wrinkles in her skin, which were few.
Behind her, Senator Dennison was also on his feet. Unlike some people who didn’t resemble their photos very much at all, Senator Dennison photographed well and looked the same in person. He was about half a foot taller than his wife, with a trim, athletic build, his shoulders still wide with muscle. His skin was tanned, and it looked like a real tan and not something that had been sprayed on. He had dark hair that had gone mostly gray, an easy smile, and friendly blue eyes. He was less casually dressed than his wife, still in his dress pants and shirt, but he’d removed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves.
Without appearing to, Eric paid sharp attention to the senator. On the surface, he was one of those immediately likable men—affable, intelligent, but with drive to him. He hadn’t been content to live off his wife’s money, but had started his own business and made a success of it before going into politics and being successful there, too.
They both looked relaxed, but he could see the tension in them. Their son’s fiancée had been murdered. At the moment they were on the sidelines, but all too soon they would be called front and center; they’d have to be in the public eye, answer questions from the press, comfort their son, do what they could to support the bereaved couple who in another month would have been Sean’s in-laws. They were in the eye of the hurricane now and they were taking advantage of the relative quiet, because it wouldn’t last long.
“Please sit down,” Fayre said, indicating an oversized leather sofa that was made to accommodate men. “Would you like anything to drink? I know alcohol’s out, but there’s coffee, iced tea, or soft drinks.” Both of the Dennisons had a glass of white wine beside them.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Eric as they sat. The plush leather enveloped his ass with just the right amount of support, inviting him to sink back. He didn’t, sitting forward with his notebook on his knee.
She looked at him and a slow grin lit her face. “That’s right. I caught the noon news. You’re giving up coffee forever.”
Garvey made a stifled snorting sound, and Eric felt his face getting hot. “Ma’am, I apologize,” he said.
“Don’t you dare apologize. That brought some humor into the day, the only little bit we’ve had since we got the news last night about Carrie. That little boy was a charmer, but I thank my lucky stars he’s some other woman’s problem and not mine because he looks like a handful. You did a remarkably brave thing, so I think you’re entitled to use a few cuss words if you want.”
“Not so brave.” He tugged at his collar, feeling the heat run down his neck. “The guy was armed with a squirt gun.”
