The Black Widow

Jordan wanted to tell Claire that it had been too much for all of them, not only Ryan, but instead she said, “Why don’t you take him back to the kitchen and see if you can get him to eat a bite. I’ll take over here.”

“Thanks, Jordan. I knew I could count on you. You’ve been our strength. I don’t know what we’d have done with-out you.”

“Go…go…” She shooed Claire away. “Take care of your husband. I’ll handle everything else just fine on my own.”

You’ve been our strength.

How many times had Jordan been told that she was always the strong, capable, take-charge person in good times and bad? Her earliest memories were those of being a caretaker. First, when she was only ten, to her sick and dying mother, then afterward to her grieving father. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t been taking care of others. Perhaps that was her lot in life, her mission, her burden, her duty, the one thing at which she excelled.

After she replaced her brother-in-law in the receiving line, Jordan lost track of time. Eventually, her hand, which had been shaken countless times, became as numb as her emotions. The only way she could make it through this evening without losing her mind was to act and react by remote control. Shake hands. Accept sympathy. Don’t cringe when someone she barely knew hugged her. Agree that Dan had been a prince of a fellow and would be sorely missed. Move on to the next person and repeat the process.

Rick hated Price Manor on sight. The antebellum mansion was a relic from the South’s notorious past, a plantation house that had been passed down through the generations. No doubt, the Price family could trace their ancestors back to Europe, probably to nobility, albeit some of their predecessors had possibly been born out of wedlock, fathered by kings, princes, dukes and earls. Rick could trace his ancestry back to his hard-drinking, ornery grandpa Carson, whose claim to fame had been that he could whip any man in a fair fight. His father’s family home had been a Mississippi shit-shack, with a roof that leaked when it rained and floorboards so wide apart you could see the chickens pecking for worms in the rich soil under the house.

“Looks like something out of Gone with the Wind, doesn’t it?” Nicole said as they rolled up to the front veranda and stopped.

“Yeah,” Rick replied as he got out, handed his keys to the parking attendant and made his way around to the passenger side just as Nicole closed the door. Since it had stopped raining, he’d left the umbrella in the car. “Do your cousin and her husband live here, too?”

“No, they live in downtown Priceville, in an old Victorian house that belonged to Ryan and Dan’s maternal grandmother.”

“Both sides of the family had money, huh?”

“It seems so.” Nic cast him a sidelong glance as they reached the open front doors. “Keep your opinion of Jordan Price to yourself when we speak with Ryan and Claire later. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. None of my business. Keep my mouth shut.”

Although it wasn’t raining, moisture hung in the air, heavy and damp. Rick would have liked to remove his black jacket and rip off his tie, get a little more comfortable and cooler. He definitely wasn’t a suit and tie kind of guy. Give him a pair of wash-worn jeans and a cotton shirt instead of fancy duds any day of the week.

Good God, the house was swarming with people, like maggots pouring out of a rotting corpse. The interior temperature had to be a good ten degrees warmer than the humid air outside. Body heat.

Rick and Nicole took their place in the reception line, apparently close to the end since only two couples were ahead of them, one pair offering their condolences to the widow—and to Devon Markham. Two women flanked Jordan, the one on her right, a tall, thin woman with a sharp nose and keen brown eyes, separated her from Markham. The woman on the left was older, but far more attractive. A full-figured blonde who oozed sex appeal. Rick got the distinct impression that both women had stationed themselves there to guard Jordan. Who were they to the young widow? Mother? Aunt? A former nanny?

As the other couples moved on, Nicole stepped up in line and, one by one, offered the foursome in the reception line her sympathy. Jordan reached out and took Nicole’s hand.

“I appreciate your driving in from Knoxville,” Jordan said. “I’m sure your being here is a great comfort to Claire.”

Rick said nothing, simply stuck to Nicole like glue and nodded his head to each of the older ladies. He had intended to pass by as unobtrusively as possible, but suddenly Jordan asked Nicole, “Is this your husband?”

Nic shook her head. “No, Griff is in England. This is Rick Carson, a Powell agent. He offered to drive down with me so I wouldn’t have to make the trip alone.”

Smooth, Nic. A little white lie to prevent an awkward moment.

He looked right at Jordan then. Big mistake. She gazed up at him with blue-gray eyes a shade lighter than the dark gray silk suit she wore, and Rick felt as if he’d been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. The lady took his breath away. Slender, fragile bones, porcelain skin, classically beautiful features. She looked as if she was on the verge of collapse and everything masculine in him wanted to reach out and offer her the support of his strong arms.

Her mouth curved upward in an almost smile. “That was very kind of you, Mr. Carson.”

How the hell did he respond to that? “Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry about your husband.”

“Thank you.” The soft, sweet sound of her voice wrapped around him like satin cords, pulling him in, threatening to bind him to her.

Not until Nic grabbed his arm and gave it a yank did he realize he was still staring at Jordan, that he hadn’t moved an inch and was holding up the line of mourners still waiting to express their sympathy.

Once Nic had ushered him out of the foyer and into the parlor on the left, she said, “I need to find Claire and Ryan and see why he wants to hire Powell’s. After that, we can head for home.”

“We could split up and go in different directions to look for them,” Rick suggested. “Then meet back here in five minutes.”

“Okay. Good idea. You start your search in here and I’ll go into the other parlor,” Nic told him, then just as she turned around, she stopped and said, “Wait up. I see Claire. She’s motioning to me.”

Rick fell in step beside Nic as she headed toward the foyer again. He caught sight of Nic’s cousin, Claire, a leggy brunette almost as tall as Nic.

“Come on,” Nic said.

When they approached Claire, she met them at the pocket doors open to the foyer. “Ryan is in Dan’s study. He’s waiting for us.”

Rick followed the two women down the wide hall and into a dark-paneled room with three floor-to-ceiling windows on the back wall, and two walls covered with built-in bookshelves. Ryan Price stood, with his back to the door, in front of a fireplace topped with an ornately carved mantel. When he heard the door open, he turned slowly.

He moved forward and extended his hand, first to Nicole and then to Rick. “Thank you for coming to the funeral.”

“Dan was a good man,” Nic said. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”

Ryan grimaced. “I don’t know how to say this any other way, so here goes—I don’t believe Dan killed himself.”

“I see.” Nic glanced at Claire as if silently asking her if she agreed with her husband. “What makes you think he didn’t kill himself? It’s my understanding, from what Claire told me, that the local authorities and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation have ruled Dan’s death a suicide.”

As she rushed to her husband’s side, Claire said, “Officially, Dan’s death was ruled a suicide. But we were told that it’s difficult, if not sometimes impossible, to prove a suicide wasn’t murder. Especially when the person supposedly shot himself in the head.”

Ryan’s gaze settled on the sofa in front of the fireplace. “He was lying there when Jordan found him. The only fingerprints on the gun were Dan’s. And there was gunshot residue on his hand from where he had supposedly fired the weapon.”

“Then why—?” Nic asked, but Ryan cut her off.

“I knew Dan. Knew the kind of man he was. Under no circumstances would he have killed himself.” Ryan slipped his arm around Claire’s waist, obviously needing her com-fort and support. “I want to hire the Powell Agency to do a thorough investigation and find a way to prove that my brother didn’t commit suicide.”

Nic glanced at Claire again.

Claire cleared her throat, then said, “I told Nic that we discovered, after Dan’s death, that he was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.”

Ryan heaved a deep sigh. “That information is not to go beyond this room.” He glared at Rick. Rick nodded. “Dan might have considered suicide, but I’m telling you that he wouldn’t have—” Ryan’s voice cracked. Swallowing hard, he turned his head sideways, averting his teary gaze.

“You realize the alternative to suicide is murder,” Nic said.

“Yes,” Claire answered for both of them.

“Do you have any reason to believe that someone murdered your brother?” Rick asked.

A loud, startled gasp came from the doorway. All heads turned. Jordan Price had opened the door and stood there, eyes wide with shock, her mouth parted and her pale cheeks suddenly flushed.

“Oh, my God, no, no! You can’t honestly believe that someone murdered Dan.”

Chapter 2 (#ud7bab574-08dc-508e-a925-f4b92dd9053b)