Dying to Please Read online

  He looked pleased that she remembered him. “Please call me Trevor. My dear, I've been thinking about you all day. This is terrible, what's happened. You must have been so afraid.”

  Her throat locked, and she stared at him. After the events of the day, this gentle sympathy was almost her undoing.

  “The newscasters made it sound as if the police suspect you, but that's ridiculous. You couldn't possibly have done such a thing; the very idea. Are you staying here for the time being?”

  “I—” She swallowed. “I haven't checked in yet.”

  “Then let's go in and get you a room so you can rest. Have you eaten anything today? There's a café here, I believe. I'd be honored if you'd join me for a meal.”

  He was a virtual stranger, but after only one meeting he had more faith in her than Cahill had. The difference between them slapped her in the face, sent her reeling. She didn't realize she had swayed again until Mr. Densmore reached out to touch her arm. “My dear, you're on the verge of collapse. Come with me. You'll feel better after you've had something to eat, I promise.”

  It was so easy just to let him take charge. All but the most simple actions seemed beyond her capability now; it was a relief not to make decisions, not even about what she ate. Before she knew it they were in the café and he was quietly ordering hot tea and soup for her, making soft comments that didn't require replies but nevertheless wove a sort of buffer zone around her and gave her something else to concentrate on. All day the same scenes had been replaying in her mind, all day the same horrible thoughts had chased around and around, and he offered surcease from that. She listened to him, and she allowed herself to forget, just for a little while.

  He was gentle in his insistence that she eat, but relentless. After a day of feeling battered, it was good to be taken care of. She made herself eat half the bowl of soup, and sip the hot tea. At least she began to feel a little warmer, but her mind was still in a fog and she was surprised when she suddenly focused on what Mr. Densmore was saying.

  “You still want to hire me?” she asked in dazed astonishment.

  He blushed, and fiddled with his teaspoon, unnecessarily stirring the already stirred tea, then precisely placing the spoon on the rim of the saucer. “I know this is terrible timing,” he said. “I'm sorry. This is so embarrassing.”

  “No, it isn't that,” she said quickly. “It's just—I apologize. I'm so tired I can't concentrate. Thank you very much for your offer, but, Mr. Densmore . . . it may not be safe. My employers seem to be—” She stopped, her lips suddenly trembling, unable to go on.

  “That can't have anything to do with you,” he said firmly. “It's just a horrible coincidence. It's been on the news that there's been another incident, so that proves you aren't involved in any way.”

  The media was on top of things today if it was already on the news about this latest killing, she thought tiredly. But they were in a high state of alert, monitoring the police radios and 911 calls, so it was possible they were at this latest scene almost before the cops were.

  Another person was dead. She should be horrified for the victim's sake, for the family's sake, but all she could feel was grateful that she wasn't there.

  “My offer still stands,” he said, his shy smile beginning to form. “I was impressed with your abilities when I saw you on television, and again last Saturday. Please think about it. My estate is extensive; I've been coping with part-time staff, but it would really benefit from permanent, expert supervision. It's very quiet, and I have excellent security.”

  Her mind felt filled with cotton, but one thought at least was clear: the job offers wouldn't be pouring in this time, the way they had after the Judge was killed. After what happened to the Lankfords, she would at the least be regarded as a jinx, though this last killing would at least prove she wasn't a murderer. Not many people would want someone like her in the house. Probably Mr. Densmore wouldn't have, either, if he hadn't already met her and formed his own opinion about her character.

  She should take her time finding another position. She should advertise in the papers in Atlanta and Palm Beach, maybe even New Orleans. She could stay with her parents while she searched, assuming the police would let her leave the area. Right now, even with this newest development, that was a big assumption.

  Since this job was falling into her lap, the simplest thing would be to take it. She would have somewhere to live, and something to occupy her mind. When she felt better, when she was more herself, then she could decide what to do on a permanent basis.

  “I have to be honest with you, Mr. Densmore. After what's happened, I don't think I want to stay in this area. I'm grateful for your offer, and if you're still interested in hiring me knowing that it may be temporary—”

  “I am,” he said quickly. “I understand completely how you feel. But after things have settled down and you see the arrangements at my estate, I hope you'll change your mind about leaving.”

  She took a deep breath. “In that case, I accept your offer.”

  CHAPTER 26

  THE VICTIM'S NAME WAS JACOB WANETTA, FIFTY-SIX YEARS old, the president and CEO of Wanetta Advertising. He lived on Cherokee Road, and he and his wife were golfing enthusiasts. He was working at home that day, and he'd been hale and hearty when his wife was picked up by a friend a little after lunch to play nine holes at the Mountain Brook Country Club, then have cocktails. He'd waved them off from the front door, so it wasn't a matter of the wife saying he was alive then, the friend had seen him, too. When the wife arrived home after a fun afternoon of golf and gin, she found her husband sprawled beside the hearth in his den, a bullet through his brain.

  The evidence technicians found the shell casing where it had rolled under the sofa, and immediate comparisons were being made to see if it matched the three found at the Lankfords. From the damage done, the bullet looked to be the same caliber as the others, though the ME would have to weigh the slug to be certain. The shot appeared to have been delivered in the same manner as two of the others. Except for Mrs. Lankford, who had been shot between the eyes, the other killing wounds had all entered from the left, indicating the killer had been standing to the left of the victim and was right-handed. That had to be sheer coincidence, where he stood, but maybe not. Maybe, being right-handed, he deliberately maneuvered so he was on the victim's left, giving himself an unencumbered shot. If he stood to the victim's right, shooting would require swiveling his body, and might give the victim time to react.

  As it was, none of the victims had stood a chance. They hadn't had time to do more than blink, if that. Except for Merilyn Lankford; she had obviously been trying to call for help.

  Jacob Wanetta had been a hefty, athletic guy. If any of them could have fought, he would have been the one. But he'd gone down just like the others, without resistance. There were no overturned chairs, no lamps knocked askew, nothing . . . just that very efficient killing.

  He had been killed while Sarah was safely at the police department. There was no question of her innocence, and since by all indications he and the Lankfords had been killed by the same person, that effectively removed the media focus from her. The chief put out a statement that they had been concerned for Miss Stevens's safety, but they had at no time considered her a suspect. That was a flat-out lie, but who cared, if it killed the media's interest in her?

  Ahern said he'd left her at the Mountain Brook Inn, with instructions to check in under Geraldine Ahern, his mother's name. Cahill wished Ahern had actually gone inside with her and seen to it himself, but he understood the urgency to get to the scene. When Mrs. Wanetta's hysterical phone call had come into 911, there in the police department, everyone had scrambled like fighter pilots racing to meet an oncoming wave of bombers.

  They were stretched thin, trying to handle the normal problems that cropped up plus three murders in one day. With this latest development, Lieutenant Wester decided there wasn't any reason to keep Cahill separate from the Lankford case; Wester had only five investi