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Lies. All lies.
The burn of emotions in her eyes had fury blasting through Finley. She closed her eyes and shut it off. She had no idea who the caller was. Could be some nut trying to rattle her cage or looking for some payoff. The case had been in the news for months. Not to mention every time she and Jack won a case, there was a recap of who Finley was, as if thatone night—her husband’s murder—was the only story of her life worth telling.
There was always the chance this could be another ploy set up by Carson Dempsey.
Finley pushed away the distracting thoughts. Six o’clock. She would find out then. For now, she needed to speak with someone who wasn’t a member of Winthrop’s gang of five. Someone outside the work arena.
Laney Pettit. She was a good friend. The maid of honor at Winthrop’s wedding. Winthrop was living with her while her house was in police custody. Maybe she would provide at least a different look into who Ellen Winthrop was.
Finley drove away from the parking garage. She considered touching base with Jack or maybe even Matt about the call from the unidentified female but decided she didn’t want to hear how she shouldn’t go alone. Instead, at the next red light she sent a text to Nita Borelli, the receptionist at the firm, who was actually the person who ran the show. Finley passed along the time and location of her appointment. It was a habit from her days as an assistant district attorney.
At least that way someone would know where to look for her body if it turned out to be a setup.
Pettit Residence
Penrose Drive, Brentwood, 4:50 p.m.
Finley pulled into the drive of the elegant home. Not bad for a woman who’d retired from teaching ten years ago at fifty-five. According to her social media page, she’d decided after the death of her last husband that she no longer wanted to be bogged down with responsibility. She wanted to spend the rest of her days digging in her garden and taking long walks on the beach. Easy to do when your third husband had beeneven richer than the first two—all three of whom had died unexpectedly and left everything to Pettit.
“I’m sensing a theme here,” Finley muttered.
In truth, she’d checked out cause of death on the three. Two heart attacks and one stroke. Pettit was simply unlucky—or lucky, depending on how one looked at it.
So far none of the news outlets following the story had tracked Winthrop here. For Pettit’s sake, Finley hoped they didn’t. Having a flock of reporters camped in front of your home was not fun.
Finley climbed out of her car, scanning the expansive yard with its meticulous landscaping as she closed the door. Definitely a high-end neighborhood. Homes in the seven figures. Estate-size lots with huge maintenance price tags. Massive fluted columns and stacked stone fronted the house.
Finley rang the bell and waited.
Thirty seconds later she repeated the process. Press and wait.
When another minute ticked off with no answer, she considered her options. She could call Winthrop, but then that would tip off Pettit. Finley wanted to catch her cold. She thought of the photos of blooming gardens around a lovely patio she’d seen on social media and decided to go around back. She wandered down the walk and surveyed the high stone walls that surrounded the rear of the property.
“Aha.” She spotted an arbor-topped gate very nearly concealed by the blooming vines covering it.
Finley headed that way. As good fortune would have it, the gate was slightly ajar.
Well, maybe not ajar but not locked.
It opened with ease. Finley stepped across the demarcation line that separated the sort-of-public part of the property, which was viewable and easily accessible from the street, to the part beyond an enclosing wall, which was unquestionably considered private. No barking, which hopefully meant no guard dog.
Before stepping from the shielding hedge, Finley called out, “Hello! Ms.Pettit?”
She surveyed what she could see beyond her position next to the gate. Massive green shrubs, all clipped and shorn to just the right shapes and angles. Elegant flowering trees that, though not in bloom, served as the perfect contrast to the solid masses surrounding them. Gobs of flowers in urns and beds. Stone benches and iron tables adorned the seating areas tucked discreetly around the space.
No answer. Still no barking. She might as well take the plunge. Finley started forward, the sound of water drawing her around the corner of the house. A large fountain surrounded by rows of blooming flowers and shrubs, all a perfect complement to the rest of the landscape, stood in the middle of a cobblestone patio. Music floated softly from the veranda that spanned the length of the back of the home.
“Hello!” Finley called out again. She’d already spotted Laney Pettit kneeling near a collection of blooms, carefully removing the dead petals and leaves.
Pettit held her gloved hand over her eyes and surveyed the yard. She spotted Finley and got to her feet with more spring in her step than one would expect.
“Hello.” Pettit waved, then started to tug off the gloves.
Finley met her at the fountain. By then she’d removed her gloves and was reaching for her wide-brimmed straw hat.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you arrive.” She smiled, then frowned. “Ellen isn’t home. She’s still at the office.”
“Actually, it was you I wanted to see,” Finley explained. “I was in the neighborhood and hoped you might have some time for a few questions. When you didn’t answer the door, I took the liberty of checking back here. Ellen said you could usually be found in your garden.”
