The Detective's Dilemma

His partner ignored that and nodded at a flashy yellow convertible parked in front of the door. “Suppose Mrs. Womack has company?”

“Shouldn’t think so,” Ty answered, opening his car door. “She knows we’re coming.”

Paul got out and walked around the front of the car. “Seems to me there’d be room in that four-car garage back there for family cars.”

“Guess we’ll see,” Ty replied, his footsteps carrying him toward the front door. He pushed the bell and rolled his shoulders, adjusting the weight of his gun and the placement of the shoulder holster. The door opened, and a sullen, gray-haired maid in a beige uniform greeted them.

“Are you the police?”

“Detectives Jester and Redstone, ma’am.”

“They’re waiting on you. This way.”

They? Ty glanced at Paul, then over his shoulder at the flashy yellow convertible with its clean white top. If Mrs. Womack had called her attorney in to hold her hand, that was one flamboyant advocate. He stepped into the opulent, tiled entry and followed the maid, Jester behind him. They were shown into a sunny solar room at the back of the house crammed with so many plants that the bamboo furnishings were all but hidden. Ty heard rushed whispers and giggling, but wasn’t sure from where until the maid pushed back the frond of a particularly impressive potted palm and addressed someone Ty couldn’t quite see, announcing baldly, “They’re here.”

She turned to Ty and Jester, letting the palm frond fall into place. “Ya’ll want some coffee or something?”

“No, thank you.”

She nodded sharply and plodded off. Ty traded glances with Paul before he stepped around the potted palm—and looked straight into the smiling face of Beth Maitland. She set aside a cup and saucer and bounced off the short sofa where she was sitting next to a plastic-looking blonde. Her wide smile beamed with perfect white teeth. “Ty!” she exclaimed, holding out her hand as if greeting an old friend.

Exasperation warred with anger and no small amount of sheer delight. The woman took his breath away, and he was going to give her a tongue-lashing as soon as he got her out of here.

“Giselle,” she gushed, “I want you to meet Ty Redstone and Paul Jester.” She flipped a little wave at the woman sitting with crossed bare legs beside her. “Giselle Womack. That’s Mrs. Harold Womack,” Beth confided, amusement twinkling in her eyes as if they shared a private joke.

Ty tried to keep a straight face as he nodded at the young woman preening in her seat on the narrow sofa, but the picture of Harold Womack that sprang to mind made that difficult. Ty had done a little research on his interview subjects and had found more info on Harold Womack than most. One thing he’d come across was a newspaper photo taken at a charity golf tournament. He could see it now— Harold Womack, a full head shorter than the other men in the photo, bald as glass, sixty if he was a day, his belly hanging over his belt, a cigar clamped between his teeth as he prepared to swing a club at the ball on the ground. Ty had wondered at the time if the man could even see the ball for his belly. Now he wondered if old Harold hadn’t bought himself a cute little trophy wife to help him hold age at bay.

Giselle Womack hadn’t yet seen thirty, but her smooth face bore the signs of bad cosmetic surgery, a blunt, slightly scooped nose, the prominent jut of a too rounded chin, lips that looked as though they’d been stung by a peculiarly accurate bee. Her hair was a little too blond and big to be real, and unlike Beth’s full, firm bust, Giselle’s proudly displayed breasts looked hard and unnatural on her bony frame. Only the ostentatious diamonds glittering on the hand she held aloft for Ty’s greeting seemed genuine. He wondered if he was supposed to shake that hand or kiss it. He settled for a quick press and a slight nod.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Ty,” Giselle said breathily, fanning her shoulders to call attention to the cleavage displayed by the little knit dress she was wearing. At least, it would have been a dress on a ten-year-old; on her it was a long shirt two sizes too small. He forced a slight smile and glanced daggers at Beth from the corners of his eyes. Heard about him, had she? He could only guess what Beth Maitland had told her. Paul slid his hands into his pants pockets and rocked on his heels, indicating with a slight clearing of his throat that he was perfectly aware he was being left out of the welcome. Battling exasperation, Ty managed a polite reply.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Womack.”

Mrs. Womack waved her diamonds and said, “Oh, honey, call me Giselle. We’re not formal here. Are we, Beth?”

Beth folded her long legs and took her seat. “Not at all,” she confirmed, and lifted a hand toward the chairs placed at either end of the rectangular glass table standing before the couch. Ty picked the chair closest to Beth, leaving Paul to cross in front of the table and gingerly take the chair next to Giselle Womack. Paul nodded affably and was pointedly ignored. He shot an amused look at Ty and settled back, prepared to be invisible.

Giselle leaned forward, allowing Ty yet another view of her cleavage, and said, “I think it’s wonderful how you’re helping Beth.”

Helping Beth. As if he was a paid assistant. Ty ground his back teeth. “We’re investigating the murder of Brianne Dumont.”

“I’m dying to know,” Giselle said, gushing. “Was she or wasn’t she?”

Ty lifted both eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Hasn’t anyone else told you?” Giselle fairly crowed. “I just knew someone would spill the beans.”

By now Ty realized he wasn’t going to get a straight answer from the blonde; she was too busy congratulating herself on being the one to manage the revelation. He turned to Beth Maitland. “Was she or wasn’t she what?”

“Pregnant,” Beth answered bluntly, a light dancing in those sky-blue eyes. “Brianne claimed that she was pregnant.”

Claimed was the right word. Ty had seen the coroner’s report. Brianne Dumont had not been pregnant at the time of her death—had never been pregnant—but he kept that bit of information to himself.