Imitation in Death (In Death #17)(24)

He let out a bark of laughter, stood from where he'd crouched by the ball and gave her his full attention. "Young lady, I'm more than seventy. I'm fit, but I need my sleep. I play eighteen holes every morning, and before I do, I have a good breakfast, read the paper, and check the stock reports. I'm up every morning at seven. I'm in bed every night by eleven unless my wife drags me out to some shindig. Night before last I was in bed by eleven, and after making love to my wife-a process that doesn't take as long as it once didI was asleep. Can't prove it, of course."

He brushed her back, turned to the caddy. "Gimme the seven iron, Tony."

She watched him set, sight, then smack the ball into a pretty arch. It bounced on the green and rolled to within about five feet of the cup.

From Hawthorne's wide grin, she assumed it was a good shot.

"I'd like to speak with your wife."

He shrugged, handed the club, back to the caddy. "Go ahead. She's over at the courts. Got a tennis lesson today."

Darla Hawthorne was dancing around on a. shaded court in a candy pink romper with a flippy skirt. She was doing more dancing than actual connecting with the ball, but she looked damn good doing so. She was built like a teenager's wet dream, lots of soft, jiggling breast barely contained, and long, long legs shown off by the little skirt and matching pink shoes.

She was so evenly tanned, she might have been painted.

Her hair, which must have hit her waist when unrestrained, was tied back in a ribbon pink, natch-and scooped through the hole in her little pink visor. It swung happily back and forth as she pranced over the court and missed the bright yellow ball.

When she bent over to retrieve it, Eve was treated to the sight of her heart-shaped butt in tight, high-cut panties under the skirt.

Her instructor, a hunky guy with lots of streaky hair and white teeth, called out direction and encouragement.

At one point, he came over to stand behind her, nuzzling her back against him as he adjusted her swing. She sent him a big, lash- fluttering smile over her shoulder.

"Mrs. Hawthorne?" Before the balls could start flying again, Eve stepped onto the court.

Tennis guy immediately rushed forward. "Boots! You can't walk on this surface without the proper foot attire."

"I'm not here to whack balls." She held up her badge. "I need a moment with Mrs. Hawthorne."

"Well, you have to take those off, or stand on the sidelines. We have rules."

"What's the problem, Hank?"

"There's a policewoman here, Mrs. H."

"Oh." Darla bit her lip, and patting her heart walked over to the end of the net. "If this is about that speeding ticket, I'm going to pay it. I just-"

"I'm not Traffic. Can I have a minute?"

"Oh, sure. Hank, I could use a break anyway. Getting all sweaty." " She walked, with a lot of swinging hip, to a bench, opened a pink bag and took out a bottle of designer water.

"Could you tell me where you were night before last? Between midnight and three."

"What?" Beneath the glow on her perfect oval face, Darla paled. "Why?"

"It's just a routine stop in a matter I'm investigating."

"Sweetie knows I was home." Her eyes, mermaid green, began to swim. "I don't know why he'd have you investigating Me."

"I'm not investigating you, Mrs. Hawthorne."

Hank walked over, handed her a small towel. "Any problem, Mrs. H?"

"No problem here, go flex your muscles someplace else." "

Dismissing him, Eve sat beside Darla. "Midnight and three, night before last."

"I was home in bed." She shot Eve a defiant look now. "With Sweetie. Where else would I be?"

Good question, Eve thought.

She asked about the writing paper, but Darla shrugged it off. Yes, they'd been in Europe in August, and she bought a lot of things. Why shouldn't she? How was she supposed to remember everything she'd bought or that Sweetie bought for her?

Dallas circled around for another few minutes, then stood so Darla could walk back, and be comforted by Hank. He shot Eve a nasty look before leading his student toward what Eve assumed was the clubhouse.

"Interesting," Eve stated aloud. "Looks like our Darla was out, practicing on Hank's balls during at least part of the time in question."

"Definitely getting more than instruction on her back swing," Peabody agreed. "Poor Sweetie."

"If Sweetie knows his wife's playing singles with her tennis pro, he could've used the time she was out pulling his racket to get downtown, do Wooton. You got a wife's running cross-court on you, it pisses you off. So you not only kill a whore-and what's your young, unfaithful wife but a whore-but you use the cheating bitch as your alibi. Game, set, match. Very neat."

"Yeah, and I liked your tennis metaphors, too."

"We do what we can. Anyway, it's a theory. Let's go see what else we can dig up on Hawthorne."

He'd been married three times, as Roarke had stated, with each successive spouse younger than the preceding one. He'd divorced both former Mrs. Hawthornes, and had nipped them off with the lowest possible financial package, as arranged through a premarital agreement. An iron-clad one from the results, Eve mused.