Justice Betrayed Page 3

  “Sure, barring—”

  “I know, barring an emergency.” She grabbed a towel. “Erin’s excited about coming to the party.”

  “I’m glad she’ll be there.” For the last few years, her dad usually arranged something special around this time of year to lighten everyone’s mood. This year it was a surprise birthday party for his mother.

  Terri nodded toward the door. “Ready to get started?”

  For the next hour, Rachel worked through an intensive routine of ballet moves and finished off the workout with four laps around the track. When they finished, Rachel wiped her face with a towel while Terri had barely broken a sweat. At least her face was red. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Not sweat. And you’re barely even breathing hard.” It was difficult to believe Terri was nearing sixty.

  She laughed. “Good shape, maybe. And I don’t do caffeine.”

  Had to be the caffeine. “Well, I want to be you when I grow up.” Rachel grabbed her bag. She would shower at home before meeting her dad. “Sure you won’t reconsider and meet us at Corky’s?”

  “Barbecue?” Terri tilted her silver head. “Tempting, but I better not, since Erin is really looking forward to the Elvis thing. Tell Lucien hello for me, and I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

  “Will do.” She didn’t quite understand Terri and her father’s relationship. Rachel didn’t remember a time that Terri wasn’t part of the family, and while she and her dad had always shared an easy friendship, romance didn’t appear to be in the picture. Not that Rachel would mind. Maybe if he had a romantic interest, he’d have something to do when he wasn’t on the bench other than keep tabs on her. “Did you know Donna Dumont is coming?”

  Terri stiffened. “No.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  Her friend’s lips thinned. “I don’t know what your father sees in her, but if he wants Donna there, so be it.”

  3

  AS RACHEL STEPPED INSIDE Corky’s, speakers blared Elvis music, rekindling the question that Vic had brought up about her mother’s death being connected to Foxx’s murder. She considered whether to repeat it to her father as she threaded her way through the crowd to his table.

  If he hadn’t dallied with some law clerk, he would have been home where he belonged. The thought was there before she could block it, and Rachel shrugged it off. She had no proof he’d had an affair, and the past was the past. Let it go.

  A waiter passed holding trays loaded with barbecued ribs, and she stopped, giving herself time to regroup. She’d dealt with this issue in her twenties and made a choice to get past it. The Judge was the only parent she had, and blaming him for not being home when her mother was murdered was useless. Not that her father ever admitted anything was his fault. At least he didn’t give her the “look” as often—the one that made Rachel think he blamed her for what happened.

  If she brought Vic’s question up, it could ruin their evening together, and Rachel didn’t want to do that. For most of her life, her father had been too busy for her, but lately he’d made a point of them getting together on the Friday nights both were free. Surprisingly, they met more often than not.

  His effort to be a part of her life touched her, even if almost every week brought a subtle pressure for her to return to her old law firm. The Honorable Lucien Winslow had never fully accepted her decision to leave the law firm he’d handpicked for her and made it plain he didn’t understand why she wanted to be a detective instead of an attorney.

  She slipped into the oak chair opposite him. The Judge was dressed impeccably, as usual, in a white polo shirt and navy dress pants. Even at sixty, he had no more than a smattering of gray at his temple. She frowned. It was unusual that his dark hair needed a trim.

  He crossed his arms. “You’re late.”

  “How are you?” Rachel unfolded the cloth napkin and placed it in her lap. “I’m fine, thank you so much for asking.”

  The hint of a smile tugged at his gray eyes. “Sorry. But I’m hungry. I’ve already ordered two rib plates for us. Should be out any minute.”

  Good thing she was hungry for ribs. A family two tables over caught her eye, and her heart warmed as a little girl offered her crayon to the man Rachel assumed was the father. He gently tucked a curl behind the child’s ear before he colored where she pointed. A good man, for sure.

  The Judge tapped his fingers on the table, attracting her attention. He looked a little on edge. She hoped that didn’t mean he’d grill her about something before the evening was over. He’d gotten better about that lately. “So, how’s your week been?” she asked.

  His drumming stopped. “Busy with a murder case coming up on the docket. The defense is trying every tactic in the books to delay the trial. And I’m getting ready for tomorrow night’s birthday party for you and your grandmother. You’ll be able to take her shopping tomorrow afternoon, right? And then bring her to the house at six?”

  The competition would end no later than noon, giving her the afternoon free. “Shouldn’t be any problem.”

  Rachel’s birthday had always been combined with Gran’s. Not that she minded, at least not as an adult. She was so glad her father had decided to throw a surprise party for her grandmother’s eighty-third. “And Terri said she’d fill in for me if anything comes up. I understand you invited Donna Dumont to the party.”

  “Yes. We had dinner together last week, and don’t change the subject.”

  He rubbed his thumb along his jaw, a sure sign he wasn’t happy, and she braced herself for whatever criticism he was about to send her way.

  “I expect you to do everything in your power to be at the party. I’ll be making an announcement I think you will find interesting.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Relieved it was no more than that, she searched his face, looking for a clue as to what his announcement was, but she couldn’t read him. Not that he would ever tell her before he was ready, and with her luck, it was probably an offer from her old law firm to come back—an offer he’d think she couldn’t pass up.

  “You know, Silverstone and Webster would love to have you back.”

  And there it was. “I’m not interested. I like what I’m doing now. You know, protecting people. It’s never boring.” She refused to look away from the hard stare he pinned her with. “Can we talk about something else? Like how my week has been?”

  Finally, he broke eye contact. “So, how was your week?”

  She fingered the silverware. She’d decided he would want to know if someone was poking around in her mother’s case, and he would expect to be told sooner than later. “Interesting, especially this afternoon.”

  “How so?” The Judge turned his head, scanning the room. “What’s taking so long for our food?”

  “It’s always busy here on Friday night. Besides, it’s Elvis Week,” she said. If he didn’t return to the subject, she would let it drop. Briefly Rachel studied her father as he again drummed his fingers on the wooden table. He wore power well even without his three-piece suit. When his gray eyes bored into her, she believed he could make even the president uncomfortable.

  He shook his head. “How did I manage to forget it was Elvis Week? We should have eaten takeout at the house.”

  Their waitress evidently had noticed her father’s agitation and approached. “Judge Winslow, I’m sorry for the delay, but it won’t be much longer,” she said. “It’s just that the kitchen is shorthanded, and we’re slammed, to boot.”

  “No problem. Thank you for keeping us informed.”

  Rachel was amused that her father could be gracious when he wanted to be. He was used to special treatment and getting his way, and other than her career choice, even she usually placated him.

  “So what made today so interesting?” he asked.

  A little surprised that he’d returned to the subject, she rearranged her knife and fork. “I had a visitor just before five. Vic Vegas. I think you’ve met him.”

&nbs
p; His trim eyebrows lowered as he frowned. “Vic Vegas? Don’t recall meeting him, and the name doesn’t sound familiar—it’s one I would have remembered.”

  “He’s an Elvis tribute artist, has been for thirty years. Said he talked to you a few years ago about one of your former clients, Harrison Foxx.”

  His nostrils flared slightly. “That name I remember. Murdered, I believe.”

  “He was.” There had never been anything wrong with the Judge’s memory, so she was surprised he didn’t remember Vic.

  “Exactly what did this Vegas want?”

  “He wants me to look into Foxx’s murder.”

  Her father lifted his tea glass to his lips and took a deep drink before setting the glass back on the table. “It’s a cold case. Why would he come to you?”

  Unease settled in her stomach. It had been slight, but his fingers had shaken as he reached for the glass. Vic’s visit to her had rattled him. Why?

  “Maybe because he remembered me from seventeen years ago at an Elvis contest. Or because he knew Mom was friends with Harrison Foxx.”

  The Judge’s face darkened. “They weren’t all that close.”

  Rachel flinched at the venom in his voice. “Are you saying they weren’t friends?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and his eyes registered a faraway look. Then he was back. “Okay, they went to school together a couple of years and had some kind of bond. Harrison was a con artist. Not that I ever got your mother to believe me. You know how loyal she always was.”

  Maybe her mom didn’t believe her friend was a con artist because she didn’t see everything in black and white like the Judge. And maybe Foxx had been a shoulder to cry on during a difficult time.

  He grimaced. “She liked to help people and was using her contacts to help him break into show business.”

  “Vic said you represented Foxx.”

  “He was accused of swindling a woman out of five thousand dollars. Don’t remember her name now.”

  “Why did you represent him?”

  “Your mother twisted my arm. She thought the woman was crazy. Didn’t believe Foxx swindled her, but from what I learned about him, it was probably true.” He shook his head. “He got quite a bit from Gabby. Always loans, of course.”

  Surely her mother hadn’t given the man money. “How did you settle the case?”

  “I encouraged her attorney to settle for half of it, which she refused. It dragged on in court, and he died, and she didn’t get anything.”

  When the waitress appeared with their order, Rachel was still trying to reconcile her mother being friends with someone like the man her father described. The interruption gave her time to collect her thoughts. She wasn’t certain how far she wanted to carry this conversation. At least not until she had a chance to look through the files on Foxx’s murder. Besides, given the direction the conversation had taken, anything further would probably ruin both of their appetites, and Corky’s had great barbecue and the best fried pickles she’d ever eaten. She picked up a pickle and crunched into it. But why would her mother give money to Foxx? The question nagged at her. “Why—”

  “Let’s not talk about this anymore,” he said.

  The Judge had put on his bench face. She’d get no more information from him tonight.

  “When was the last time you saw Boone?” he asked her.

  “Today,” she said. Of all the topics he could have chosen, why did he pick Boone Callahan? “He’s working the same days I do now.”

  “Bring him around sometime.”

  “We haven’t dated in six months.”

  “I’m sorry he broke it off,” the Judge said. “I enjoyed talking with him.”

  “He didn’t,” she said tersely. Smoke was bound to be coming from her ears.

  Her father stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Didn’t what?”

  “He didn’t end the relationship. I did.”

  Oh, for a camera to capture the look of astonishment on her father’s face.

  4

  THE FLUORESCENT LIGHT from the lamp beside the sofa cast a glare on the journal. The photos in it mocked Shirley as she turned the pages. Every one of them betrayed her one way or the other.

  Why don’t you get rid of the journal?

  “Leave me alone!” She couldn’t get rid of it. The photos reminded her of who her enemies had been and what they’d done, fueling her anger and helping her to put words on the paper.

  Don’t talk to me in that tone, Shirley. Do you remember that leather strap?

  She flinched until she remembered he could no longer hurt her. At least not physically. “My name is not Shirley, and I’ll keep these photos as long as I want.”

  Little Shirley Baker, didn’t no one like her . . .

  “Stop it! That doesn’t even rhyme.” There had to be a way to get his voice out of her head. She slammed the album shut and pressed her fingers in her ears. Think about something else.

  But it wasn’t long before Shirley rubbed the blood-red cover, unable to keep her thoughts and fingers away from the journal as she opened it again. It was important to keep a record of those who had wronged her. To show the world one day why they had to die, that it hadn’t been her fault.

  She’d thought Vic was her friend. Thought they all were her friends. Showed how much she knew about people. Always believing the best until they betrayed her. Her gaze slipped to the photo of Gabby and Harrison. She traced a finger over the image of Gabby showing off the diamond guitar-shaped necklace that Harrison had given her just before the picture was taken.

  “You don’t have to be jealous of her,” he’d said. “She’s only a friend.” What baloney. She’d seen the looks of pity others shot her way when Harrison and Gabby were together. Even Gabby’s husband knew they shared more than friendship.

  She hadn’t intended to kill Gabby. All Gabby had to do was break off the relationship with Harrison and give Shirley the necklace. But Gabby had laughed at her when Shirley told her the necklace was hers, that it was her money that bought it.

  Gabby shouldn’t have laughed at her, shouldn’t have said Shirley ought to know better than to give Harrison money if she couldn’t afford to lose it.

  It wasn’t like Gabby even wanted him or the necklace. But she’d gotten angry, said she’d been friends with Harrison most of her life. They’d argued, and the next thing she knew, Gabby was on the floor, unconscious.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  Says you. You were always a loser.

  “I’m not listening to you tonight,” she said through her teeth.

  Only losers are stupid enough to wear a stolen necklace.

  Oh, why had she worn the pendant tonight? Because it made her feel special. She could pretend Harrison had given it to her, not Gabby.

  When she saw Vic coming toward her, she’d removed it from around her neck and dropped it in her purse. The room had been so crowded, and someone came along and knocked her purse over, spilling the necklace onto the table while Vic was talking to her.

  He’d yanked it off the table and got right in her face, accusing her of killing Gabby. Shirley thought she’d managed to talk her way out of it until he wouldn’t give it back.

  She clamped her jaw tight. Vic should not have kept it.

  But where was it now? The necklace hadn’t been in his coat pocket or anywhere in the house. What had he done with it?

  She regretted she’d killed him before finding out and before finding the files he’d compiled on Harrison’s murder. But he shouldn’t have laughed when she demanded the necklace back. He hadn’t laughed when he saw the gun. That had been priceless . . .

  She paced the bedroom floor, worrying her problem over. If anyone found where he kept his files . . . Wait, she hadn’t been able to find Vic’s hiding place. And if she couldn’t find it, neither would anyone else. Her mind calmed. She was smarter than the cops . . . smarter than anyone. She’d gotten away with five murders. They would never catch her, and if she kept her cool
, everything would be okay.

  Suddenly an image of Vic showing Randy Culver the necklace flashed through her mind. Her knees turned to water. Why couldn’t Vic just let Harrison’s murder go? Why did he have to go see Detective Sloan?

  What if she was assigned to investigate Vic’s murder? Shirley hadn’t considered that, but it was a real possibility since he’d gone to see her today. If Sloan got the case, she would interview everyone Vic talked to at Blues & Such tonight. She swallowed hard. If the detective talked to Randy and he described the necklace, she would realize it was the one that Harrison had given to her mother. After all, how common were diamond necklaces shaped like a guitar?

  Maybe Sloan wouldn’t even remember the jewelry. No, she would remember a unique necklace like that one. And even if she hadn’t thought about it since that night, all it would take was Randy mentioning it.

  This was spiraling out of control. She could not allow him to talk to the detective.

  5

  AT EIGHT SATURDAY MORNING, Erin beamed at Rachel from the passenger seat as they crossed the narrow bridge leading into Elmwood Cemetery. Both the bridge and the Gothic cottage they passed, along with the eighty acres of gently rolling hills, were on the National Register. An oasis in the middle of the city.

  Erin clapped her hands. “This is where the angels are!”

  “Yep.” A poster proclaiming the 165th anniversary of the cemetery next week caught her eye. They were celebrating with an evening stroll walking tour. At night probably because of the heat.

  While touring a cemetery might sound strange to some, Rachel loved the idea, especially at this one. Elmwood was rich with the history of Memphis, dating back to 1852. Beneath the ancient elms and magnolias, some of Memphis’s most famous and infamous had been laid to rest among the ordinary people. Since the tour was planned for evening, she quite possibly could do the tour.

  “We’re going to visit your mother.”

  Erin forgot nothing and was always direct and to the point. “Her grave,” Rachel said. “I have flowers for the vase.”