The Black Widow. BEVERLY BARTON
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because she wasn’t hysterical with grief today doesn’t mean she didn’t love Dan.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Rick agreed. “But look at the facts. He was twenty years older, rich and powerful, and his death may not have been suicide. What’s the first rule of thumb in a case such as this?”
“Suspect the wife.”
“Right. And add to that scenario a young lover and you’ve got a recipe for murder.”
“You’re assuming that Jordan and Devon Markham are lovers,” Nic said. “I think you’re wrong about that.”
“Why do you think I’m wrong?”
“Woman’s instinct.”
Rick laughed. “Care to elaborate?”
“Yes, I think they love each other, but they’re not in love. They don’t look at each other or touch each other the way a couple in love does.”
“You can tell if a couple is in love from watching the way they look at each other?”
“I told you that my theory is not based on scientific facts, just good old-fashioned woman’s intuition.”
“Okay, say I buy your theory. That doesn’t rule out Jordan Price as a suspect.”
“Jordan is not a suspect. She’s our client,” Nic reminded him. “She hired us, remember?”
“Ryan Price hired us. She jumped on the bandwagon when she realized that we were going to do an investigation. After all, if she had put up a protest, it would have made her look guilty.”
“I think maybe I should put Holt Keinan or Maleah Perdue on this case.”
“Don’t.”
Nic gave him another sidelong glance, her gaze questioning him. “Give me one good reason why I should hand this case over to you, all things considered?”
“Because I want to be proven wrong,” he admitted. “I don’t want Jordan Price to be guilty.”
“Hmm…You surprise me. I never suspected—”
“That I find the lady intriguing? That I’m as susceptible as the next guy to a beautiful, vulnerable woman?”
“Okay, the case is yours,” Nic told him. “But if I get one complaint from either Jordan or Ryan, I’ll jerk your ass off the case and put another agent in charge. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
By seven that evening, the house had cleared, the string quartet had left and the caterers had cleaned up and gone. Only family and close friends remained, only those to whom Dan Price had been far more than a colleague, an acquaintance, another good old boy, or just their senator. The numbness that had encompassed Jordan for the past few weeks, from the moment she discovered Dan’s body until this evening, began to fade. She wished that she could remain in the semi-frozen emotional state, acting and reacting with control and logic. But sooner or later, she would have to confront the truth and deal with her personal grief.
“Do you want us to stay here tonight?” Claire asked. “I can call my mother and ask her to either keep Michael until tomorrow or bring him here.”
Jordan tried to smile at her sister-in-law, but the effort failed. “No, please, you and Ryan should go home. You’re less than five miles away, if I were to need you. Besides”— she glanced over her shoulder into the parlor—“I have more than enough company.”
“How is Devon holding up?” Claire whispered.
“In public, he’s holding it together. In private…he’ll make it through this somehow. I’ll take care of him.”
“You always have, haven’t you?”
Jordan nodded. “Making plans for the baby will help us both. I just wish I’d had the chance to tell Dan…”
“You’re thinking that if he’d known about the baby, he wouldn’t have…that he might still be alive.”
Jordan’s gaze connected directly with her sister-in-law’s. “Claire, do you believe that Dan was murdered?”
Claire sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Ryan is convinced that Dan didn’t kill himself. It definitely wasn’t an accident, so that leaves only murder.”
“I can hardly bear the thought that Dan committed suicide, but the thought that someone murdered him is almost more than…” Jordan paused and took a deep breath. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together, the family, those of us who loved Dan.”
Ryan came up to them and draped his arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Ready?”
“Yes, whenever you are.”
He looked at Jordan. “I’ll let Nicole know that Mr. Carson can stay with us during the investigation. And I apologize again for not consulting you first.”
“I understand your motives,” Jordan said. “And as for Mr. Carson staying with you and Claire—that won’t be necessary. We have more than enough room for him here, far more room than y’all have.”
“Are you sure?” Ryan asked. “I got the feeling that you didn’t especially like Mr. Carson.”
“I don’t know Mr. Carson. But if Nicole thinks he’s the best agent to spearhead the private investigation, then I have no objections. After all, she’s the expert, not you or I.”
“Believe me, I don’t want to think that someone murdered Dan, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense to me.”
“You mean that it’s the only explanation you will accept.”
“Yes, it is the only explanation I’ll accept,” Ryan agreed. “I refuse to believe that Dan would commit suicide, not even after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.” His face flushed with aggravation. When Claire leaned into him, he tightened his hold around her shoulders and gave her a reassuring hug. “I’m okay, honey.”
“You should both go home and try to get some rest,” Jordan said. “I’ll contact Nicole and inform her that we decided Mr. Carson will stay here at Price Manor during the investigation. And I’ll tell the others tonight that we have hired the Powell Agency to look into the circumstances surrounding Dan’s death.”
Claire offered her a wavering smile, and then she ushered Ryan out the front door. Jordan closed her eyes and prayed for strength. The very last thing she and this family needed right now was a private detective sticking his nose into matters that were highly confidential.
But if Dan really had been murdered?
“Jordan, are you all right? You’re as white as a sheet.” The country twang to Roselynne’s voice was quite distinctive. Her stepmother had been raised on a farm on Sand Mountain in the northeastern tip of Alabama and had lived a rather hard life before marrying Jordan’s father. Jordan had been twelve years old. Her own much-adored mother had been dead for less than two years and in the beginning, Jordan had despised Roselynne.
She turned to face her stepmother, a voluptuous blonde whose clothing tastes ran to animal prints, four-inch heels, and oversized jewelry. Today, even though her hair was teased and her makeup was heavy, she wore a simple black dress, albeit one that hugged every generous curve of her 58-year-old body. Trailing along behind Roselynne, her daughter Tammy paled in comparison, like a little brown wren alongside a red bird.
“I’m all right. Just tired.”
“Well, of course, you’re tired. Who wouldn’t be after the day you’ve had. Good God, I think the whole damn state of Georgia tramped through this house and probably half of Tennessee to boot.” Roselynne placed her fleshy arm around Jordan’s shoulders. “Are you hungry, honey?” She snapped her fingers at Tammy. “Go get your sister a plate of food and some