* * *
Landry watched her until she was out of sight, then slumped lower in his seat and closed his eyes. After the time with her, he’d concluded she was deliberately downplaying her looks with the ugly clothes. In a predominantly male environment, maybe it worked for her, though he couldn’t help thinking she’d have better luck if she did the opposite. What man wouldn’t prefer to talk to her with a little style to the hair, an airy dress almost thin enough to see through, a little cleavage and sexy, strappy sandals to show off those long, lean legs? They’d tell her what she wanted to know—tell her everything they knew—just to keep her around a little longer.
He heard an engine starting out front, then pushed to his feet. Without picking up the business card, he headed for the house, glancing back only for an instant while climbing the steps. It tilted at an angle, caught between blades of lush green grass. He wouldn’t forget her name, and if he ever wanted to talk to her, he could look up the NCIS office number on the computer.
Once she discovered that of all the people who’d hated Jeremiah, no one hated him as much as Landry, she would probably be looking him up.
The sunroom was empty. He ran into Scott, heading for the stairway carrying a heavy crystal tumbler filled with milk, warm, no doubt—Mary Ellen’s go-to when she needed comfort. Their mother preferred gin, and their father had preferred—
Landry’s stomach took a sour tumble that he did his damnedest to ignore. “Is she lying down?”
“Said she would.” With his free hand, Scott combed through his hair. “The detective asked us to ask the relatives about Camilla—see if we can find out who she’s visiting. I never wanted to say anything to Mary Ellen, but I never thought she was visiting family. If she is, why hasn’t she called the girls at least once? And why wouldn’t the admiral say who? Why the secrecy if it was just a regular trip to visit family?”
Because the admiral was a deceitful man. Landry knew some of his uglier secrets. God, he hoped they were the uglier ones, because he damn well didn’t want to think about what could be worse.
“Where do you think she is, then?” His voice was level, but something new stirred deep inside for his mother: worry. Could something have happened to her? Was it coincidence that her husband was murdered just a few weeks after she disappeared?
Scott shifted uncomfortably, glanced up the stairs, then lowered his voice. “I think she left. Left him. Left the marriage. I think she hasn’t called Mary Ellen because she knew she would beg her to come back. I think she didn’t tell anyone where she was going so he couldn’t find her.”
Left. Landry had asked her to leave his father but only once. He was fifteen, desperately trying to figure out his own and Mary Ellen’s futures, and Camilla had given him a sad, sorry look, murmured, You don’t understand, baby, then taken a healthy sip of gin.
Left, when there was no one left to save except maybe herself.
“There’s other theories.” Scott glanced upstairs again. “Seline Moncrief thinks she ran off with a man. Honoria Thomas thinks the admiral checked her into rehab for her drinking problem. Judge Macklin’s wife is convinced that the admiral sent her away because he has no need for her now that he’s retiring.” He stopped, swallowed hard. “Had no need. Was retiring.”
“I hadn’t heard that. When?”
“A couple months. Said he’d done his service to his country and now he wanted to devote his time to his family, golfing and fishing.”
Inside, Landry shuddered, grateful the old man’s definition of family no longer included him. He’d had enough quality time with his father to last through eternity.
He said his goodbyes and covered half the distance to the door before Scott spoke again. When he turned, his brother-in-law was paused on the stairs.
“Mary Ellen said she would appreciate it tremendously if you would help her with the funeral arrangements tomorrow, but she’d understand if you said no.”
Of course she’d take responsibility for the funeral. Who else would? Leave it to Landry, and he’d have the bastard cremated, then flushed down the toilet. But it wasn’t left to him, and though he’d rather do anything else in the world—almost—he would help plan a respectful send-off for the admiral. Not because Jeremiah deserved it, but because Mary Ellen wanted it.
“Let me know when and where.”
Scott nodded, and Landry was finally free to walk out of the house...where he found Alia Kingsley waiting on the porch. A glance at the street showed that DiBiase was gone, and there were no cars around that might be hers.
She’d put on a pair of sunglasses, the really dark kind that made it impossible to see her eyes. He didn’t trust people when he couldn’t see their eyes.
Hell, he didn’t trust most people even when he could see their eyes.
“Forget something?”
“I thought I’d go see Miss Viola now. I need an address.”
He headed down the steps. “You’re the police. Find her yourself.”
“I can do that. But it’s quicker if you tell me. Or—” she matched him stride for stride “—I can ask your sister.”
“Mary Ellen’s resting.”
“Then it would be a shame to disturb her, especially after such a difficult morning.”
Stopping beside his car, he stared at her, implacably calm and unflustered on the other side of the vehicle. “Three blocks that way.” He pointed back the way he’d come. “At Saint Charles. On the left.” Then he stated the obvious. “You don’t have a car.”
The faintest of smiles tilted the corners of her mouth. “It’s still at the admiral’s house. But I run five miles every day. I can walk three blocks.” She turned and started to do just that.
He could let her go—should let her go—but the idea of her questioning Miss Viola alone made a muscle twitch at the back of his neck. The old lady knew all the family secrets. She also knew to keep them to herself. He trusted her on that. At least, he always had.
It was Kingsley he didn’t trust.
“I’m headed that way. I’ll give you a ride.”
She stopped, maybe twenty feet away, and gave him a steady look. He would bet she didn’t believe his plan to go by the Fulsom house was more than a minute old, but she returned to the driveway, opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. She rested her hands in her lap. Long fingers, no jewelry, unpolished nails. Was there no Mr. Special Agent Kingsley, or was she one of those people who preferred to not wear a wedding ring?
As he backed the car into the street, he waited for her to start with a new line of questions. She didn’t. She didn’t complain about the heat in the car, didn’t ask him to turn on the air-conditioning for the short drive. For all she made her presence known, he could have been alone.
When he pulled into Miss Viola’s drive for the second time that morning, she undid her seat belt and opened the door. “You don’t have to get out. I can introduce myself.”
“Right.” He shut off the engine. Obviously she didn’t want him interfering in her interview, but not quite as much as he didn’t want Miss Viola letting anything slip.
They climbed the steps, and he rang the bell. A pretty redhead answered, let them into the foyer and left to get Miss Viola. He stood, hands in his pockets, and hoped his cousin was taking a nap, heading out