The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(26)

“In time, yes,” Gloria agreed, “but she was dragged through the mud first. No one would hire her.” She smiled. “Her life was a living hell for quite some time. Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but the twit had the same dark hair and eyes as those daughters—the twins. Could have been her who hired Charlie Holmes. She may have passed herself off as one of his daughters.”

The images Finley had pulled up on the net showed a blonde Cherry Prescott. But hair color could be changed, especially when a person wanted to hide. Finley knew this firsthand. Olivia Legard had done the same thing. Definitely a lead worth following up.

“But you didn’t know him—Holmes, I mean—or have any dealings with him at any time,” Finley clarified.

“Absolutely not.” Gloria’s face contorted in distaste.

“You never met him?” Finley pressed. “Never heard of him?”

“No.”

“You called him Charlie,” Finley pointed out. “A moment ago, you said Charlie. Why would you call someone you don’t know by a nickname?”

Gloria’s smug expression vanished. Face blanked. She blinked. “Did I?” Another shrug, this one a little jerky. “I must have heard him called that on the news. I don’t know him, and I’ve certainly never met him.”

Finley placed her glass on the tray Donna had left on the table in front of the sofa. She slipped a card from her bag and left it next to the tray. “I hope you’ll call me if you remember anything else that might be useful in finding all the facts surrounding Mr. Legard’s murder.”

“I will,” Gloria confirmed as she rose to her feet. “Here, let me send one of my favorite books with you.”

Finley started to tell her she didn’t have a lot of time to read, but the woman thrust a book in her hand too quickly for her to beg off.

“I’ve already autographed it. Enjoy.”

Finley looked from the book to the woman. “This is your book? As in . . . you wrote it?”

Gloria waved a hand at the bookcases. “I wrote all these books. Using a pen name, of course. Seth’s money was good for a while, but I had my own money. Still do.” She looked directly at Finley then. “If you’re thinking I wanted some sort of revenge against Legard for ruining Seth in the industry, think again. I didn’t need his money, and as far as I’m concerned, Legard did me a favor. In truth, Cherry did as well.”

Finley surveyed the quiet neighborhood as she walked back to her car. Other than calling Holmes by his nickname, which may very well have been because she’d heard it on the news, Gloria Henderson presented herself as frank and forthcoming. Finley’s instincts told her that she was telling the truth.

She glanced one last time at Gloria Henderson’s home. It was strange, really, when one thought about it. Life happened like a stage play, all the characters fulfilling their roles—surviving tragedy and reveling in success. Trudging through the paces required of the roles. Was the success sweeter if preceded by tragedy? Certainly seemed that way for Gloria Henderson.

Finley climbed into her car and tossed the novel to the passenger seat. Deadly Passions.

Her gaze narrowed, and she picked up the book once more and opened the cover. A quick flip to the dedication page and she confirmed her conclusion.

A special thanks to Cherry for providing the inspiration to launch my writing career over the top. I’ve never been happier.

Enough said.





10


7:00 p.m.


The Murder House

Shelby Avenue

Nashville

Finley tossed the burger wrapper into the bag as she slowed for the turn onto her street. She’d gone over the Collins and Henderson interviews with Jack. The P-trap business had intrigued him. His orders were for Finley to track the woman down one way or the other. Not a problem. Finley knew where she lived.

Jack had an update as well. Siniard had shared the evidence that supposedly supported the claim by Holmes. A handwritten letter from Cecelia Legard. Cecelia, of course, denied writing it. However, analysis showed it was her handwriting. That said, lots of teenagers wished their parents dead. Plenty talked about it, but that didn’t mean they really intended to do it. Not to mention, the note stated Cecelia wanted it—and, for the record, it was not elaborated on—done as soon as possible. The trouble was, there was no actual mention of the victim. Holmes couldn’t prove Cecelia asked him to murder her father. The letter only showed she had contacted him and wanted something done. Siniard was obviously hoping to raise enough doubt to win.

Finley braked to turn into her drive, and the gray sedan parked at the curb had her frowning. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and street parking was par for the course in the neighborhood. Could be a visitor for any house on her block. She parked. Washed down the last bite of burger with a slug of water. She crumpled the fast-food bag and grabbed her water bottle, all the while watching the rearview mirror.

The driver exited the vehicle. Tall, male. He strode around his trunk and started up her drive. So not a visitor for one of her neighbors.

Older. Sixties, maybe. He adjusted his jacket.

Cop.

The instinctive adjustment that allowed for the comforting feel of the badge and the holstered weapon was unmistakable.

Maybe this was the new detective—something Houser—assigned to Derrick’s case.