The Black Widow

Darlene gasped. “What a terrible thing to say!”

“Oh, crap. You know I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I just meant if anybody’s had enough tragedy for two lifetimes, it’s our Jordan.”

“If my Robby Joe had lived…” Her voice trailed off on a fragile, whispery moan.

Damn, she didn’t want to hear about Robby Joe being the love of Jordan’s life. Not again. Not today. If Darlene had spouted off that tale of woe once, she’d done it a million times.

“Look, if I see Jordan, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.” Rene eased around Darlene and headed straight for the back stairs.

“She’s not in her study,” Darlene called. “And she’s not in her room.”

“Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

Two places not to look for Jordan: her bedroom and her study.

She’d search for her boss, and if she didn’t find her soon, she’d try calling Jordan on her cell phone. But she doubted that would do any good. Jordan’s phone was probably turned off to prevent taking unwanted calls.

After scouring the downstairs, even the kitchen and bathrooms, Rene stepped out the back door, pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her pants pocket and lit the cigarette. She had all but given up smoking, but in dealing with Dan’s death, she had reverted to an old bad habit for solace. Drawing in deeply, she sighed with contentment as she paced back and forth on the porch.

Suddenly she heard soft weeping. The sound came from behind the hedges that screened the small back porch from the patio surrounding the pool. She took another draw on the cigarette, stepped off the porch and walked out into the yard. As she turned the corner of the tall hedge-row, she felt a prickle of apprehension and sensed she was being watched. After looking right and left, she glanced up, her gaze scanning the second-story windows. A dark shadow stood at one of the windows.

Rick Carson stared down, but not at her.

She followed his line of vision and gasped. Holy shit!

Rene made a beeline to where Devon stood on the patio, Jordan wrapped in his arms. When she approached, Jordan lifted her head from Devon’s chest.

“Is something wrong?” Jordan asked.

“You two are putting on quite a show for our resident detective,” Rene told them. “Don’t look now, but Rick Carson is watching you two from his bedroom window and God only knows what he’s thinking.”

Chapter 5 (#ud7bab574-08dc-508e-a925-f4b92dd9053b)

Rick was definitely a fish out of water with this bunch. To start with, he was underdressed for dinner. But how was he to know the other three men would be in suits and ties? He supposed it didn’t matter. After all, he wasn’t really a guest, just another employee and he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been asked to eat in the kitchen with Tobias and Vadonna. As he entered the dining room, he ran his hand over his face. He should have shaved again since his beard grew fast and despite having shaved this morning, he already sported a five o’clock shadow. As for his clothes: he wore jeans, a blue chambray shirt and a lightweight brown twill jacket. He had dropped the only suit he owed, the one he’d worn to the funeral yesterday, by the cleaners on his way out of town this morning.

Passing his gaze over the room’s occupants, he immediately noticed that Jordan was missing. As he surveyed the large dining table set for ten, he got a whiff of an overly sweet but probably expensive perfume.

“Well, honey, you stick out like a sore thumb, don’t you?” The woman’s voice whispered in his ear. When he turned to his left, he glanced down at the overblown bleached blonde who was grinning at him as if she knew all his secrets. “Of course, some of us prefer our meat raw.” Her laughter radiated from deep in her throat, a husky, lifetime smoker’s rumble.

He cocked one brow and smiled at the woman who was a good 20 years his senior. “I believe we met briefly yesterday. I’m Rick Carson. I’m from the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency.”

She took his hand in hers and held it. Her smile accentuated the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Laugh lines. He’d bet this woman had done a lot of laughing in her life.

“I’m Roselynne Harris. Jordan’s mama.” When he looked at her questioningly, she amended her statement. “Well, stepmama, actually. I married her daddy when Jordan was twelve. But I love that gal as if she were my own, love her just like I do Tammy and J.C.”

“Tammy and J.C.?”

“My other kids. Jordan’s Daddy adopted my boy and girl. He was a good man. Jordan takes after him.” She pointed first to the petite brown-eyed, brown-haired woman standing in the corner alone. Sad-faced and plain, Tammy apparently sensed her mother’s scrutiny and turned to stare wide-eyed at Roselynne. “I named her after Tammy Wynette. You know she was the queen of country music. ‘Stand by Your Man’ was one of her big hits.” Roselynne’s gaze traveled around the room, lighting on the lanky, blond guy who was talking to the two teenagers. From their strong physical resemblance—dark hair and eyes, tall and slender—the teens could easily pass for twins.

“That’s my boy there.” Roselynne pointed at the blond. “That’s my J.C., my pride and joy. Named him after Mr. Country Music himself, Johnny Cash. I was on my way to a career as a country singer when I met my first husband.” She lowered her voice back to a whisper. “Got myself knocked up and married the good-looking, worthless bum.”

“It happens,” Rick said. “Who are the twins talking with your son?”

“Oh, them? That’s Kendra and Wes Brannon. But they’re not twins, just brother and sister. She’s eighteen and he’s twenty. They’re Jordan’s stepchildren.”

“Hmm…They were here Easter weekend when Senator Price died, weren’t they?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess they were. That was that weekend. We were all in and out. The kids were in from college. He goes to Auburn and she’s over at the University of Georgia, where Jordan went.”

“You said that y’all were in and out during that weekend. Do you know if everyone here tonight was in and out of the house when Dan Price died?”

Roselynne paused before she spoke, something Rick figured she didn’t do all that often. He had her pegged for the type who seldom wasted time thinking about what she said. “Devon is—was Dan’s assistant. He lived wherever Dan and Jordan lived. And Rene—” she pointed to the attractive brunette deep in conversation with Devon Markham “—is Jordan’s assistant and lives here, too, when they’re in Georgia. I believe she has her own place in D.C.”

“What about you and your children, where do y’all live?”

“Playing investigator?”

“Not playing, Mrs. Harris. Just doing my job.”

She grinned. “Call me Roselynne. Everybody does.”

Yeah, he’d bet everybody did. Every man she’d ever met. “Okay, Roselynne, so where do you—?”

“J.C. travels quite a bit, but when he’s in town, he stays with me part of the time. Tammy’s got some health issues, needs some looking after, if you know what I mean.” Roselynne tapped her right temple. “My girl’s high strung and nervous.”

Was that Roselynne’s motherly way of saying her daughter was mentally unbalanced?

“Jordan’s kids are away at college, but home to them is wherever Jordan is. They adore her, just like we all do.”

“I hear the lady is practically a saint.”

“As far as I’m concerned she is.” Roselynne’s eyes misted. “To know Jordan is to love her. Take my word on that. You won’t find a single solitary soul who’ll say one word against her.”

“I find that hard to believe. Even saints have enemies.”

“Not our Jordan,” Roselynne said emphatically.

“What are you telling this man about Jordan?” The woman who had just walked up in front of them glared at Roselynne, contempt in her gaze.

“Mrs. Harris was just telling me what a saint Jordan is,” Rick said.

The woman turned her sharp stare at him, her eyes small and dark. She looked down her thin, hawkish nose at Rick, dismissing him as an inferior being.

“I’m Rick Carson, the Powell agent that Mrs. Price and her brother-in-law hired to investigate Senator Price’s death.” Rick offered her his hand.

She glowered at his hand for a good half minute, as if considering the possibility that he was somehow contaminated. Finally she grasped his hand in a firm, confident shake.

“I’m Darlene Wright. Jordan’s—” she hesitated, as if uncertain of their relationship “—Jordan’s friend. Jordan’s mother, Helene, and I were sorority sisters and friends. I think of Jordan as my daughter and she thinks of me as her mother.” Darlene cast Roselynne a sidelong glance, her expression daring the other woman to contradict her.