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  Thirty minutes later, a muddy Jeep van turned in to the crowded drive. After an instant’s hesitation while he considered the limited options, the driver wedged the oversize vehicle into the too small space between the last police car and the garage entrance. The next person hoping to get into the garage was going to have a conniption. Either the Jeep’s driver didn’t know Miami driving conditions or he had a death wish. Maybe he just had good car insurance.

  The man who emerged was drop-dead-gorgeous, an unfortunate turn of phrase this morning, she realized, but accurate. Molly considered warning him about the parking risk he’d taken, just to save his handsome neck. He had dark hair, dark eyes, a dark suit, and a dark expression. Actually she wasn’t all that sure about the eyes. They were hidden behind a pair of silvery sunglasses that reflected everything but the wearer’s emotions. Molly pegged him as a cop.

  After a muffled conversation with the nervous guard Nestor had posted at the door, he headed straight for the cardroom.

  Thirty minutes later he was back again. This time he came straight toward Molly. His tie wasn’t quite as neat as it had been, but beyond that he was as unruffled and businesslike as a banker about to conduct an interview for a loan. He’d removed the sunglasses, but he held them as if he couldn’t wait to shove them back into place.

  “You’re Mrs. DeWitt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Michael O’Hara. I’m with the Metro homicide division. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “O’Hara?” She tested the Irish name and tried to reconcile it with the distinctly Latin appearance and faint Spanish accent. She couldn’t.

  “It’s a long story,” he said, apparently guessing her confusion.

  Since Molly really wanted something to take her mind off Allan Winecroft’s murder, she considered asking him to indulge her by telling the story now. In detail. She decided against it.

  “Brian, why don’t you go get your things ready for school,” she said instead. “We’ll leave as soon as I’m finished here.”

  “But, Mom …”

  “Go. Be back in fifteen minutes and bring my purse.”

  “Couldn’t I just ask one question?” he pleaded.

  “One,” she agreed.

  He cast a suspicious look at the policeman. To the detective’s credit, he withstood the scrutiny patiently. “If you’re really a cop,” Brian said, “where’s your gun?”

  It was an apt question, since Michael O’Hara’s attire was considerably more stylish than the beige-and-brown Metro-Dade uniforms. If he had his gun in the standard blank patent leather holster, it certainly wasn’t visible underneath the tailored jacket of his black pin-striped suit. This man was dressed for dinner at Les Violins and, except for the slightly askew tie, far too fastidious to be packing the bulge of an automatic weapon.

  Detective O’Hara’s smile was every bit as devastating as Molly had anticipated. “Don’t worry, son. I can get to it, when I need it. Want to check my badge, instead?”

  “Heck, no. Timmy Rogers brought his dad’s to school once. It was no big deal. But I’ve never seen a gun up close before.”

  Molly nearly groaned aloud. She wondered if she ought to consult a shrink about this fascination with guns and dead men. Definitely, she decided, but later. Right now, she just wanted to get this interrogation over with and get to work where she could deal with men who just wanted locations for fictional TV murders.

  “Enough, Brian. I said one question. You’ve asked it. Now move it.”

  He cast one last, longing look at the detective, but Molly’s stern tone discouraged argument … for a change. “Yeah, okay,” he grumbled and left, feet dragging in protest.

  When Brian had gone, Detective O’Hara claimed the seat he’d vacated next to her. She couldn’t help noticing that the man had great thighs, the thick, muscled kind ballplayers got from hunkering down behind home plate. The observation startled her, not because he did, but because she’d noticed. She hadn’t had much time or inclination to think about sex lately, but suddenly it was almost impossible to think about anything else, even the murder.

  Why was it that some men could turn up the female thermostat just by walking into a room? Worse, why did it always seem to happen under impossible circumstances? This man was here to investigate a murder, for God’s sakes. His mind certainly wasn’t on sex. She glanced just to be sure. He was scrutinizing his notes, not her thighs. Just as she’d thought, businesslike.

  “So,” he said. “Tell me what happened.” His tone was as casual as a first date’s inquiring about a movie plot. His eyes missed nothing. Humorless, relentless, those eyes made her very nervous. She was accustomed to flirting glances, even cool dismissals, but not this cold assessment. She almost wished he’d put those sunglasses of his back on.

  “What happened when?” she asked, rattled by the distrust she sensed. She was used to being viewed as one of the good guys, an upstanding citizen.

  “You choose.”

  If she hadn’t been the target, Molly would have congratulated him on his interrogation technique. He’d left her all sorts of room to hang herself. Since she wasn’t guilty, she took a deep breath, started with the bridge game, and brought him up to date. “And that’s all I know,” she concluded ten minutes later. Apparently he didn’t think so. He still had questions.

  “Was he still fighting with his wife when you left?”

  “Yes.”

  “About the bridge game?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly.

  He was all over the hesitation. “What else?”

  “Well, if he weren’t in there on the floor with a knife in his back, I might never have thought of this, but in retrospect it seems as if their argument wasn’t really about bridge at all. I mean the words were, but …”

  He pinned her with skeptical brown eyes. “Is this one of those women’s intuition things or something concrete?”

  “Don’t dismiss women’s intuition. I read a script just the other night …”

  “A script? You’re an actress?”

  “You don’t have to say it as if it’s only one step up from working the streets,” she retorted. “No. I am not an actress. I work for the Film Commission. We read scripts in advance sometimes so we can help the production company find locations. Anyway, in this script if the stupid policeman had paid attention to the star witness’s intuition …” She caught the expression on his face. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” he said, though it didn’t sound as if he meant it.

  “Anyway, do you want to hear this or not?”

  “By all means, guess away.”

  She ignored the patronizing tone, though it was dimming his attractiveness considerably. “I can’t say what it was. It was just this undercurrent. If you’re married, you must know what I mean.”

  “Divorced,” he said tersely, but his tone was suddenly less skeptical. “I think I see. Keep going.”

  “Okay. Nobody gets that upset about bridge unless they’ve been fighting about something more serious, something they don’t dare fight about in public.”

  “But you have no idea what this other argument might have been about?”

  “No. I could ask around, though. Some of the other bridge players probably know them better than I do.”

  He was shaking his head before she finished the offer. “Let me ask the questions, okay? This is a murder investigation, not some TV script. You stay out of it,” he ordered Molly in the tone of a man instructing the little woman to remain dutifully in the kitchen. It was his first serious mistake. Molly did not take kindly to orders, even those intended to be in her own best interests. It was a knee-jerk reaction, she supposed. It wasn’t as if the man were challenging her civil rights, after all. Even so, she responded to the arrogance with her finest sarcasm. She figured he’d get the idea that she wasn’t pleased.

  “Much to my regret I found the body,” she reminded him. “To my further regret the murder weapon matches the set of knives
in my kitchen. I’d say I’m already in the middle of it.”

  “You said you left early last night and that the knife was still there. You dutifully called the police when you found the body and waited around to be questioned. Unless you have some motive you haven’t mentioned, you’re probably not a prime suspect. Unless you have a license, you’re not an investigator. That puts you in a league with Nancy Drew. I don’t need amateurs meddling with this case. Forget you ever stumbled on the body this morning.”

  “A fat lot of good that’ll do you when I have to testify in court.” She didn’t bother to mention that she wasn’t in the habit of discovering dead men first thing in the morning and that, therefore, she couldn’t be quite as cavalier about it as he seemed to be. She was likely to recall Allan Winecroft’s untimely demise for some time to come. She would not be able to forget it until the killer had been revealed and safely stashed behind bars.

  “Back-burner it, then,” Detective O’Hara advised. “Go bake some cookies or something.”

  Already at the end of her patience, Molly bristled. He hadn’t suggested that she go on to work. No. Just go bake cookies. His whole demeanor screamed of generations of machismo. Hal DeWitt at his worst before the divorce couldn’t have matched the implied put-down. Molly’s chin automatically rose a defiant notch.

  “Fine. This evening, when I get home from work, I will bake chocolate chip cookies. Then I will invite the neighbors in and serve them café cubano and these freshly baked cookies. If the name Allan Winecroft happens to creep into the conversation, I will ignore it. If one of them confesses, I won’t hear it. Will that make you happy?”

  He ran his fingers through already unruly black hair, in a gesture she’d begun to recognize about three seconds into the interrogation. “No, Mrs. DeWitt, that will irritate the hell out of me.”

  She smiled. “Perfect. Oh, and you may call me Molly.”

  “I’m not going to call you at all.” He was gritting his teeth.

  “We’ll see.”

  As she stalked off, head held high, her waiting son observed, “Mom, I’m not real sure it’s such a good idea to tick off a cop.”

  “The man investigates murders, Brian. He doesn’t commit them.”

  “Yeah, right. You must not have seen the way he looked at you.”

  She had, actually. She’d been hoping it was lust. It would improve her mood considerably to see that such lust went unrequited.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The more Molly thought about the marital rift theory she’d suggested to Detective O’Hara, the more she wanted to check it out herself. There had been a definitely hostile undercurrent to the tension between her bridge opponents. She’d had enough battles with her own ex-husband in public to recognize the symptoms of a volatile relationship gone sour and the wasted attempts to camouflage it. Maybe she was afflicted with the same bloodthirsty curiosity as her son, after all. She would give almost anything to be there when the police interviewed Drucilla Winecroft about her husband’s murder. She considered racing the detective to the woman’s apartment, but decided that would only increase his displeasure with her. Besides, what would she say to the widow?

  I’m so sorry that Allan’s dead. Could I get my knife back?

  Or perhaps, Drucilla, dear, did the knife slip when you were cutting the cake?

  Neither seemed quite right. Nor was she able to muster up the sincere sympathy of a close friend. She’d known the couple only casually before last night. She doubted that her winning hand had endeared her to them. En route to the car, she considered what she did know.

  Though he was short and overweight, Allan Winecroft had always managed to create a distinguished impression. He dressed elegantly. Even his sports clothes looked as if they’d been ordered from a British tailor with understated taste. Only a single strand or two of gray had dared to thread its way through his impeccably styled, sun-bleached hair. Molly had heard that he’d been some sort of hotshot broker, maybe stocks, maybe land. For all she knew, it could have been frozen foods, brokered to grocery chains, that had made him rich and allowed him to retire comfortably before his sixtieth birthday. He had turned sixty-two several weeks earlier. Drucilla had thrown a lavish celebration.

  As for Drucilla, she spent her days playing tennis, her evenings playing bridge, and any leftover time writing checks to local charities. Word was that Allan’s money had bought her seats on several cultural organization boards since they’d taken up residence in Florida from October through April three years earlier. They spent summers on Long Island—Bridgehampton, East Hampton, one of those places where the rich summered and continued their games of tennis and bridge. In her spare time during those months, she had various body parts lifted until her skin was taut as a twenty-year-old’s and her eyebrows were almost up to her carefully tended hairline. Personally, Molly found the attempts to defy age and gravity a little pathetic.

  She still wanted to talk to her.

  “Wait here,” she told Brian, impulsiveness winning out over discretion.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “My briefcase.”

  “I could get it, while you get the car.”

  She glared at Brian, which he didn’t deserve. “I’ll do it. Here, take the keys and wait in the car. It won’t take a minute.” If it took any longer than that, she was likely to come face-to-face with the detective in the corridor. As attractive as he was, it was not an encounter she cared to have. She had a feeling he’d have a temper to go along with that hot-blooded Latin machismo of his.

  After casting a quick glance in the direction of the cardroom to make sure that Detective O’Hara was still occupied, Molly raced to the elevator. For once it was on the lobby level. It whisked her to the eighth floor before she could fully formulate her questions for Drucilla.

  The Winecrofts had bought two apartments facing the ocean and combined them into what Molly had heard described as a showcase of excess. No one had ever explained to her satisfaction what they did with two full kitchens, especially since they never seemed to eat at home. At any rate, she approached the special double doors they’d had installed and rang the chiming bell, also their own touch. Most people in the condominium had settled for the brass knockers installed by the builder ten years earlier.

  Molly braced herself to deal with the weeping widow. When a petite Salvadoran housekeeper with a perfectly placid expression opened the door instead, she momentarily was taken aback.

  “Is Mrs. Winecroft in? I’m a neighbor, Molly DeWitt. We played bridge together last night. I just wanted to express my condolences.”

  Round brown eyes stared at her in confusion. “Sí,” the woman said finally, but without apparent comprehension. She struggled for words. “She asleep.” She folded her hands together and rested her head against them in case her meaning wasn’t clear. “Asleep, si?”

  “Asleep,” Molly repeated. “You mean she doesn’t know?”

  “¿Qué?”

  She didn’t know, Molly surmised. Neither of them knew, not the housekeeper and definitely not the sleeping widow, unless she was a cold-hearted bitch. Since Molly did not have the least desire to be the one who broke the news, she waved politely. “I’ll see her later.”

  She stepped straight back into the waiting arms of Detective O’Hara. She knew they were his because she recognized the suit. To her disgust, she realized she wouldn’t mind lingering longer so that she could recognize his embrace. In case it happened again. Under other circumstances, that is. It wasn’t men who betrayed women, she decided in disgust. It was women’s own undiscriminating female hormones that lured them into relationships with the wrong men.

  “Imagine meeting you here,” he said. He didn’t sound overjoyed.

  “She doesn’t know,” Molly whispered with a certain amount of urgency as the housekeeper cast shy, appreciative glances at the detective. Molly felt a little less guilty knowing that
his appeal was universal.

  Not the least bit sidetracked by his hormones he said, “Unless she did it and took a sedative.”

  Molly grimaced at the cynicism, even as she admired the astuteness behind it. “I never thought of that.”

  “That’s why I’m a policeman and you’re a whatever it is you are.”

  He still didn’t sound especially interested in being more informed about her career. She supposed it was extraneous. However, since she was proud of it and irritated by his attitude, she told him anyway. “An administrative assistant.”

  “Does that pay better than secretary?”

  “Are you intentionally trying to provoke me or does it just come naturally?”