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Daisy’s lips twisted. Sure, naked yoga was a thing, but she wasn’t buying it. “Is there a reason you left Venice so suddenly when you knew that I was coming to investigate?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Goldie did tell you I was on my way, yes?”
Kiki sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t listen to anything that old bag says. I’m in mourning. I just had to get away from that house,” she said with a pout. “And I was lonely. So Bruno was keeping me company. You don’t know how many tears I’ve cried over my poor, dear husband.”
“You weren’t the least bit curious about what the coroner’s report said?”
Her eyes widened. “I’ve been asking. They told me it wouldn’t be ready for another day. Do you have it?”
Daisy checked her phone and shook her head. “Not yet. What about his funeral?”
“He was to be cremated. I was planning to come back for the service, when I was more . . . together.” She stalked back to the patio and collapsed in a wooden lounge chair, fanning herself. Finding a pair of obnoxiously large sunglasses, she put them on and clapped her hands at Bruno.
“Bruno! Fetch me a drink, would you, please?”
He popped up like a faithful servant and rushed into the house, leaving the two women alone.
There was no other chair in the area, and Kiki hadn’t asked her to sit, so Daisy remained standing as the woman laid out, finger-combing her hair. Her nails were long and manicured, her hair was gold-kissed, and her skin was like sparkling champagne. “Who did you say you were, again?” she asked, staring at her hand and the enormous diamond ring on it.
“Daisy Fortune.”
“Right.” Her lip curled a bit in disgust. “I’m sorry you wasted so much time coming all the way out here. Goldie is wrong. My husband died of natural causes. I’m sure of it.”
“At sixty?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Old.”
That was a matter of perspective. “I’ve heard that he was very fit. What makes you think he wasn’t?”
She shrugged. “Hewasfit. But sometimes, these things happen. Old people just drop dead. He liked to party like a young guy, too.”
“And that’s enough of an explanation for you?” Daisy asked, tilting her head. “Most people would want to be absolutely sure.”
Unless, of course, she knew that it had something to do with the illegal drugs they were fond of consuming. A drug overdose had a way of looking bad, and for a woman who was all about image . . .
“I don’t want to think about it too much,” she said, curling the hand with a ring on it into a fist. “It makes me sick to think of what he went through.”
“Does it?”
“Of course.” She dipped her sunglasses. “I don’t know what Goldie was telling you, but I loved Frankie. We may have only been married a year, but he was everything to me. I met him right out of school, and he took care of me. I was lucky to have him.”
“Did you have an argument the night before he left?”
Her face paled. “You said that before . . . no, I didn’t. We never fought. Who told you that?”
“Some people I’ve spoken to. Your housekeeper, and—”
“Roberta’s a snotty old windbag. She listens at doors,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “Now I remember what it was about. It was nothing. We made up right away.”
“You did?”
She tapped her phone. “Yes, he even sent me a sweet little note, apologizing. It was one of the last texts he sent me.”
Daisy stared intensely at the phone. She’d gone through the police report but hadn’t seen any mention of Franklin Tate’s phone. Had he texted her? “Do you mind if I look at those texts?”
She clutched the phone to her chest. “Yes. Of course! Those are private love notes from my husband to me. You have a lot of nerve asking if I’d mind. Absolutely, I do.”
