PROLOGUE
They came in the early morning. The police cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing against the cattails, a bright red strobe, like blood splatter. Voices drifted across the lawn, unintelligible, swallowed by the humid summer air.
The six-bedroom wood-and-stone Craftsman house on the other side of the marsh had been freshly painted robin’s-egg blue with white trim and had the air of a girl waiting for her prom date who was late. The shutters still covered the windows; it hadn’t been opened for the season, even though it was already June. It sat on a rare secluded spot with a cobblestone driveway about a quarter of a mile from the main road. The only ones who’d been there so far this summer—until today—were the ubiquitous landscapers who mowed and weeded and tended to the gardens of the rich and comfortable all over town.
It was understated, considering who owned it. A man who had amassed massive wealth, owned several international companies, and yet was still most known for his weakness for wives.
The reporters would arrive next. They’d hear about this on the police scanners, climb into their vans with the satellite dishes on top, each hoping to be the one who’d get the exclusive. They wouldn’t stick to the crime scene. They’d come here, asking their questions, probing into their lives. It was bad enough that they skulked at the edges already, always watching. But this would give them permission, under the guise of journalism, a bona fide news story, to take it further.
The porch door squeaked as it opened behind her. She didn’t turn around, her eyes still trained on the activity at their neighbor’s.
“What’s going on?”
“Looks like trouble.” She took the coffee cup that was offered. “Thanks.”
“Break-in?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
They stood quietly, sipping their coffee.
“I think it’s more than a break-in.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The police were spread out along the marsh. No one was near the house.
She’d made the phone call. The one she was expected to make. Her job was done now. She could hold off the police and their questions. She had a lot of experience doing that. It was why she was here. It was how she’d survived.
The crunch of gravel announced the arrival of the first cruiser. The car door slammed, and a young cop climbed out, adjusting his hat. The gesture didn’t mask the paleness of his skin as he bit the corner of his lip, blinking against the sun. It wasn’t until he got closer that she saw the fear etched in his eyes.
Neither of them moved as the officer came up the steps onto the porch. He touched the rim of his hat as he approached.
“What’s happened?”
His gaze skittered across the lawn to the scene he’d just escaped. “A body was found. In the marsh.” The words caught in his throat, and he coughed to try to hide it.
“Body?”
“Kayakers found her.”
“Her?”
“I have to ask you if you’ve seen anything. Over there.” He added the last bit as though they might misunderstand.
“You found a dead woman?”
He nodded, his jaw clenching and unclenching. She could smell it on him now, the faint odor of sick.
“Coffee?”
He looked so grateful, she almost felt sorry for him.
They settled him in a white wicker chair facing the tennis court on the other side of the porch. His hands trembled as he held the cup to his lips, letting the scent seep into his nose and throat, eradicating the scene.
“How did she die?”
His eyes met hers. “She
was killed.”
“Murdered?”
It was barely a whisper, but his words settled between them, and there was no mistaking them.
“She had no head.”
She turned away, her own coffee cold, and went back into the house.
PART 1
1
Kate Parker’s fingers found the ring on her left hand and twisted it slightly. Hank had slipped it on as they stood before the judge at city hall only two weeks ago. He hadn’t wanted to wait, promised her a lavish reception and honeymoon later in the summer at the house in Tuscany. She’d worn a light-blue taffeta dress—something blue—and a pair of dazzling sapphire earrings that he’d given her the day before—something new. She wasn’t so superstitious as to seek out anything old or borrowed; anyway, Hank was all about looking forward, not backward. His suit was charcoal gray; his tie matched the color of her dress. The paparazzi captured them as they emerged, just before climbing into the limo. His arm was around her waist, pulling her toward him; she leaned into him, allowing him to lead the way. After an elegant dinner of oysters, caviar, and filet mignon, they’d gone alone to the penthouse. No one would believe it was the first time they’d slept together as the headline screamed: BILLIONAIRE MOGUL HANK TUDOR MARRIES ASSISTANT AT CITY HALL. She knew what everyone was thinking. It was a far cry from his last wedding, which was why he’d wanted it this way. Or so he’d told her. Still, there was no reason to act as though this was the first time for either of them. She was in her mid-thirties and had been married twice before, so she couldn’t exactly fault Hank for his previous five marriages. Sometimes it worked out, sometimes it didn’t.
As the limo moved swiftly along the highway toward Hank’s Greenwich cottage—and the questions about the body found in the marsh between his house and the inn run by his fourth wife, Anna Klein—Kate studied her husband’s profile: the long patrician nose, thin lips, pointed chin. The skin sagged slightly along his jaw when he wasn’t smiling, like now. But the rest of his face belied his age. He didn’t know Kate knew about the facelift he’d had before he married his last wife, Caitlyn Howard. He didn’t know Kate knew about a lot of things that were supposed to be secret.
She wasn’t sure what she’d gotten herself into by marrying Hank Tudor. A first wife who still made his shirts by hand while she imprisoned herself in a mansion, growing more bitter and older every day; a second who’d held his heart and his passion and then abandoned him; a third who’d died too soon; a fourth who was content running a small business and taking care of his children; and a fifth who was, well, how to describe Caitlyn? Impetuous, moody, sexy, young—an actress but also a drug addict and a drunk. Hank’s midlife crisis.
What role did he want her, Kate, to play in his life? Was she the last in the long line of wives? Would his marriage to her satisfy his itch for all women? Hard to say. All she knew for sure was that she loved him, despite his flaws, despite his money. She’d been working for him for a little more than two years, the whole time he’d been with Caitlyn. He had loved the girl until she betrayed him. Kate dried his tears, listened to him, kept the media at bay so he could grieve. He allowed his work to swallow him whole—until that night in London when he looked at her and she couldn’t look away. He’d kissed her then, and it wasn’t the kiss of a man on the rebound, but a tender, passionate kiss that held hope for the future.
Everyone told her to stay away from him. If she hadn’t known him so well, she would have. She believed that he loved her as much as she loved him.
Kate watched her husband, his expression dark, his cell phone stuck to his ear. The company stocks had plummeted after the news that a body had been found on his property. He was going to have to placate the shareholders, but he was still trying to grasp the severity of the situation.
Her own phone pinged. Tom Cromwell, Hank’s lawyer, who was sitting across from her, looked
up.
“Is it the police?” Cromwell’s deep, gravelly voice was too loud for the limo.
Kate didn’t like him or his tactics. They’d butted heads over how to handle Caitlyn’s indiscretions before Hank divorced her. If it had been up to Tom, Caitlyn would have been destroyed personally and professionally. Fortunately, Hank still had a soft spot for the girl, even though she didn’t deserve it, and allowed Kate to take the reins. Tom didn’t take well to that but grudgingly conceded.
She shook her head. The number on the screen was a familiar one. She answered the call. “Yes, Anna?”
“I tried to reach Hank but got voicemail.”
“He’s on the phone.”
“I figured. How far out are you?”
“Another twenty minutes, give or take, I’d say.”
“You can’t get to the house because of the police and the media. Come here instead.” Anna Klein’s voice was smooth, soft, stress-free. Kate bit down an irrational irritation.
“Let the police know when we’ll be there,” she instructed. “They’ll have a lot of questions, and we have to show them that Hank will do everything to cooperate in their investigation.” She shook off the impulse to do damage control the way she was used to. It wasn’t her job anymore. She glanced at Hank’s new assistant, Lindsey, who sat across from her, recognizing herself in the young woman. Eager to please, an eye always on Hank Tudor, making sure he always had his eye on her.
And he did, Kate realized now. Even though he was on the phone, even though it looked like he was looking out the window, his gaze had settled on his new assistant’s legs.
Should she be surprised? Yet, almost as though he could read her mind, his eyes suddenly met hers and he gave her a wink and the small intimate smile she had come to know so well. She felt her cheeks flush.
“Kate?” Anna’s voice brought her back to the moment.
“Yes?”
“It was a woman’s body. She was beheaded.” Anna’s tone was matter-of-fact, as though she said such things all the time. “You have to warn Hank.”
Kate tightened her grip on the phone and took a deep breath, the scent of the new leather in the limo rushing into her nose. She absently worried the soft seat with the side of her thumb. This particular piece of information would be a game changer as far as the police—and the media—were concerned.
“Do you know more than that?”
“No. And I only know that because a couple of local officers were here and told us. They asked if we’d seen anything, but we hadn’t. It wasn’t until the police cars arrived that we noticed anything at all.”
“So that’s not public information yet?”
Anna knew what she was asking: Did anyone else know the body was decapitated? “Not that I’m aware.”
Someone was going to leak it. Maybe the local officers who told Anna. Kate stole a glance at her husband, still glued to his phone, no longer looking at her—or Lindsey. She had to tell him, prepare him for the inevitable.
“They were asking about
Mary,” Anna continued.
Mary Brandon, Hank’s sister, had planned to spend several weeks at the house. Kate wasn’t surprised the police knew about her sister-in-law. Hank’s life and family had been in the spotlight—and a topic of gossip—in the community ever since he bought that house for his first wife, Catherine, all those years ago.
“Isn’t she there?” Kate asked.
A second or two of hesitation, then, “No. I left a message on her voicemail. She was here two days ago, but only briefly. She hasn’t been back. At least not that I’ve seen. The police wanted to know how to reach her. I didn’t tell them anything except that Hank would have to give them her information.”
“Thanks, Anna. I’ll see if I can find her.” I hope I can find her—the ominous thought pushed its way into her head, but she wasn’t about to say it out loud. “What about the press? I mean, I know they’re at the house, but are they bothering you, too?” It wasn’t a secret that Klein’s Bed and Breakfast was owned by Hank Tudor’s ex-wife.
“I’ve got security keeping them off the property.”
It wasn’t merely Anna’s status but that of her guests that would call for top-notch security, and not only at times like this.
Anna was still talking. “I’ve sent the children out with Joan. They’ll spend the day with friends. There’s too much going on, and I don’t like the idea of them here with the police milling about, not to mention being this close to a crime scene.”
Right. Hank’s children. Lizzie, who was almost twelve, was his daughter from his marriage to Nan, his second wife, and Ted, seven, was his son with Jeanne, his third wife. Anna had brought them to the city hall wedding and to the dinner afterward, but then they’d gone back with her and her wife, Joan. Kate had met them only a handful of times. Hank wasn’t too concerned about that, said that there was plenty of time to “get acquainted.” But in retrospect, she began to wonder if it wasn’t a mistake. She was Hank’s wife now. Anna wouldn’t possibly want to continue in her role as surrogate mother, would she?
“We’ll see you in a little bit, then, right?” Anna’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Yes.” Kate ended the call.
Hank reached over and touched the top of her hand, a soft caress.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
Kate took a deep breath. “I’m as fine as I can be. How are you?”
“That was Anna? Did she say anything else about this, um, incident?”
“It was a woman.” She hesitated a second. “She was beheaded.”
Hank’s fingers danced along hers before turning her hand over, tracing her palm lightly. She shivered.
“Was she?” he asked softly.
2
A couple of media vans were lying in wait, reporters standing outside in front of cameras, microphones in their hands, and when they spotted the limo, they sprinted toward it. The gate that was usually open and welcoming during the day was closed but swung wide as soon as the limo approached. Kate twisted in her seat to look out the back as they entered the drive. A security guard had his arms spread out, herding the reporters back toward their vans, fending them off as the gate barricaded the property once again.
A tall state trooper stopped pacing the front porch when the car pulled up and came to a stop; another trooper came around from the back. Kate reached for the door, but Tom put his hand up.
“Make them wait,” he said, indicating the police, his voice low, deep.
She glanced at Hank, who gave her a short nod to tell her she should do as told.
As Hank’s personal assistant, Kate had been barraged with questions from reporters, politicians, anyone who wanted to bend his ear for a few minutes about his empire and what kind of arrangement they might be able to make between them. She had smoothly kept them at bay, knowing who to keep out and who to let in. She had handled Hank’s schedule, rearranging when necessary, always in control.
As his wife, she didn’t have the same power.
Ironic, really.
She settled back in the leather seat as the driver got out and came around to open the door for them.
Tom was first, then he reached for Lindsey’s hand. Once she was out of the limo, he leaned down and gave Kate a nod, indicating that she was next. When she stepped onto the driveway, her heel caught on a cobblestone. She stumbled slightly but recovered quickly as her husband—it still seemed so strange to think of him as her husband—emerged from the car. The rest of them parted like the sea as he straightened up, tall and confident, striding toward the two police troopers who had come to greet them.
Hank held out his hand with a loud, gregarious, “Hank Tudor, welcome.”
The troopers seemed a little taken aback but shook his hand as offered. They had no other choice.
Hank didn’t stop, kept walking toward the inn, with the troopers, Kate, Lindsey, and Tom following.
Anna met them on the steps, her long hair plaited in a thick braid down her back. She wore a crisp white sleeveless cotton blouse over beige linen cropped pants, a pair of Birkenstocks on her feet. She was hardly stylish, but she had a quiet sophistication and gracefulness despite herself. Kate was aware of her own white cotton shift dress and heels that were highly impractical, but Hank liked her to wear them. She’d never seen Anna in heels.
Hank bounded up the steps and stopped to give Anna a peck on the cheek. “How’s my favorite girl?” he asked with a wide grin.
Anna smiled warmly at him. “Very well,” she said, then turned to everyone else. “Please follow me,” she said, taking Hank’s arm, indicating that they should go around the porch to the back.
As soon as they rounded the house, Kate’s eyes settled on the light-blue water of the swimming pool, still and glistening as the sun beat down on it. Chaise lounges were lined up like little soldiers on the stone patio, umbrellas closed. Beyond the pool, the lush green lawn spread out and disappeared over a rock wall and continued down to a sandy beach with the iridescent water of Long Island Sound beyond. The tennis courts were to the far left; a croquet game was set up and waiting for players to the right. It was serene, and Kate could almost forget about the activity at the house next door and along the marsh: the flashing cruiser lights, media vans parked on the lawn, the police and investigators combing what was no longer a summer retreat but
a crime scene.
She turned away to focus on her immediate surroundings. Anna had set up a table with cheese and crackers and fruit; crystal glasses and bottles of wine, champagne, and liquor stocked a small bar. “Can I get anyone anything?” she asked, ever the hostess.
Anna didn’t wait for Hank to answer, poured a short glass of bourbon, and handed it to him. Hank took it without a word, then turned and raised his eyebrows at the troopers.
They shook their heads, uncertain how to react. They were here for a reason, an interrogation, but Hank Tudor wasn’t the type of man who was going to let anyone else run a meeting.
Kate felt herself smiling at him. He met her eyes and nodded slightly, as if telling her everything would be okay.
She had no choice but to believe him.
The taller trooper cleared his throat. “I’m Trooper Pawlik, and this is Trooper Lawson,” he said after a second, indicating his partner.
Lawson was the younger of the two, by at least ten years. He looked like he was still in his twenties, a roguish, boyish look to him. Pawlik, on the other hand, was good looking, too, but not in that pretty boy, vain way. His nose was a little crooked, his mouth wide and full, and his stiff jacket more than hinted at the muscular build beneath it. He had an aura of authority; he wasn’t used to being controlled. He might not have Hank’s money, but Kate could see the similarities between them: powerful men who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted.
“I’d like to know what happened on my property,” Hank said, his voice measured and calm.
Pawlik leveled his stare at Hank, and Kate admired his nerve. Not many people could hold their own with Hank, but it was clear that her husband may have met his match. She was curious how this was going to go.
“A body was found,” Pawlik said.
Tom stepped in front of him before he could continue. “I’m Thomas Cromwell, Mr. Tudor’s attorney. We are happy to cooperate to the best of our ability, but as you know, Mr. Tudor hasn’t been out to that house since last summer.” His words belied his tone and the threat beneath them.
Tom was full of threats. It was what made him so good at his job—and what made Hank keep him on all these years. He’d been Hank’s lawyer since his first divorce, and Hank didn’t trust anyone more than he trusted Tom, although Kate had heard there was a rift after the situation with Anna.
“Has there been an ID made on the body?” Cromwell asked when Pawlik didn’t respond.
Pawlik cocked his head slightly and let his eyes move from Tom to Hank, whose posture was perfectly still, like a cat just before it goes in for the kill.
“The victim was a woman,” Pawlik said without answering the question. “We’ve already gotten confirmation that all of Ms. Klein’s female guests in the past couple of weeks are accounted for.” He turned to Hank. “Have you
had any problems with trespassers on your property, sir?” he asked.
The “sir” was a nice touch.
Hank shook his head. “I’m rarely at that house, Detective. Anna probably knows more about what goes on there than I do.” He glanced at her, but her expression was neutral.
“Does she ever take care of the house when you’re not there?” Pawlik spoke as though Anna wasn’t standing right next to him.
“No. She’s busy with her own house; I can’t ask her to do that. I have a local company that takes care of the lawn and landscaping. If I plan to spend any time there, I have someone go in before I arrive to get the rooms ready. My sister is there more than I am, to be honest. She likes to have a reprieve from the city.” His tone was measured, as though Pawlik would have a hard time understanding him otherwise.
“That would be Mrs. Brandon?” Pawlik asked.
Hank nodded. “Yes. She should be there now, but something must have come up.”
Pawlik turned to Anna. “You haven’t seen her?”
Anna laced her fingers together. “She was here a couple of days ago but didn’t stay long. I must’ve lost track of time, because I didn’t notice that she hadn’t come around again.” Kate recognized that she was repeating what she’d already told the local police.
“You didn’t speak to her?”
“No. We don’t socialize when she’s here.”
Kate suppressed an urge to chuckle. The idea of Mary Brandon and Anna Klein “socializing” would be akin to a lion accepting an elk into its pride.
Pawlik waited a second, then turned back to Hank. “We’d like to talk to Mrs. Brandon. Is there a way to reach her?”
Without mentioning that he’d already tried to reach Mary from the limo but hadn’t been able to, Hank turned to Lindsey. “Get Mary on the phone.”
As Lindsey pulled her cell phone out of her black leather tote, Pawlik held up his hand. “Thank you, but I’d like to have her contact information, please.”
Hank hesitated a moment, took a sip of his bourbon, then nodded solemnly. “Certainly,” he said. “Lindsey will give you everything you need.” He turned to her and said, “Give him Charlie’s number, too, in London.” Charlie Brandon, Mary’s husband. None of this would matter anyway. If the police tried to get in touch with her, Mary would talk to Hank first. That’s just the way it was. But they had to make it look good.
Hank’s eyes flickered over to Cromwell, who shifted slightly, lifting a hand to smooth an imaginary flyaway hair at his temple.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cromwell,” Pawlik said. “How did you get all those scratches on your hands?”
3
Tom didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been pruning rosebushes without gloves.” He gave a short shrug and an apologetic smile as if to say, Yes, I know that’s stupid.
Kate envied how casual he was in the face of interrogation. But he was a lawyer, so he was used to it. And he was Tom. So far no one had asked her anything, yet she absently looked at her hands to make sure there wasn’t anything that could be considered suspect.
Hank sidled over to her and handed her a glass of wine. She hadn’t even noticed that he’d poured it. His fingers brushed hers as she took the glass, and an electric spark rushed through her. He locked eyes with her; he’d felt it, too. She smiled at him, but his attention had already moved elsewhere.
“Lindsey has all the information,” he told Pawlik, as though he’d never been interrupted by something as menial as rosebush scratches on his attorney’s hands. ...
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