Winter Roses Part 10

"Just that her boyfriend has a record as long as my desk," he replied curtly. "He has clients in high places around town. Apparently your sister was involved with one of them, a married man, and the client's wife was none too happy about the affair. She made threats against your sister's life. Then there's the boyfriend. A neighbor of theirs told one of our investigators that your sister and her boyfriend had frequent violent arguments. During their latest one, he told her to leave his client alone and she threatened to go to the police with information she said could convict him of drug smuggling." He folded his hands on the cluttered desk. "As you can tell, there's no shortage of suspects if it does turn out to be a case of murder." He frowned. "Is someone with you? Family? A boyfriend, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "I don't have any relatives, except Rachel," she replied. She thought about Stuart, but kisses didn't make relationships. "And no boyfriend," she added reluctantly. "There was no one I could ask to come with me."

He grimaced. "You're not going to try to stay in your sister's apartment?" he asked quickly.

"No," she told him. "I couldn't bear to stay there. I have a room in a small hotel for the night."

"Have you ever had to deal with a death in your family before?"

"My father died two years ago," she said. "But Rachel made all the arrangements. I just paid the bills. I don't know exactly what to do," she confessed.

"I'll walk you through the procedure," he said in a gentler tone. "What can you tell me about your sister's private life?"

"Probably no more than you know already," she said apologetically. "Rachel was older than me, and she didn't like me. She only got in touch with me when I could do something for her."

He studied her quietly. "You weren't close?"

She shook her head. "Rachel didn't want to live in a small town. She wanted to be an actress on Broadway." She felt a terrible emptiness in the pit of her stomach. "I knew that she used drugs. She's done that for a long time, ever since high school. But I never thought she'd die so young." Tears ran down her cheeks. "It's just been so sudden."

"May I make a suggestion?"

She wiped her eyes. "Of course."

"You said that you have a hotel room?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Go to it and rest for a couple of hours. Call me when you're ready and I'll take you to the morgue to identify her. How about that?"

She almost argued. But he was a kind man, she could see it in his dark eyes. She smiled. "I would like to do that. Thank you."

He stood up. "I'll have one of the guys drop you off at your hotel," he added, as if he knew how limited her funds were.

"Thank you," she said gently.

He smiled. "No problem. I'll see you later."

It wasn't even lunchtime yet. She wasn't hungry. The flight had taken away her appet.i.te. She lay down on the bed covers and closed her eyes. The ordeal was still in front of her. But the sergeant had been right, a few minutes'rest might help her face the morgue.

She must have drifted off, because a persistent knocking sound brought her back to the present. She climbed off the bed, wiping at her sleepy eyes, and went to the door. She looked through the peephole and couldn't believe her eyes.

She threw open the door and ran into Stuart's warm, strong arms. She held on for dear life, sobbing, so happy to see him that she couldn't even pretend.

"It's all right, honey," he said softly, drawing her into the room. He closed and locked the door and then lifted her, carrying her to the bed. He sat down on it and cradled her across his knees. "I know it's hard. Whatever else she was, she was still your sister."

"How did you know?" she sobbed into his shoulder.

"The cabdriver who took you to the airport is Mrs. Rhodes's second cousin. He phoned her and she phoned me." His arms tightened. "Why didn't you call me?" he asked. "I would have been there like a shot."

She didn't have that much self-confidence, especially where he was concerned. But miraculously, here he was. She'd never needed someone this much in her life. She wasn't alone anymore.

She cuddled up against him, shivering a little with relief. "I have to call Sergeant Ames and he'll take me to identify...identify the body."

"I'll do that for you," he said softly.

She looked up into his pale blue eyes. "I can do it," she said. "If you'll go with me."

He smiled. "Of course I will." The smile faded. "How did she die?"

"I don't know. The police aren't sure, either. He said they'll have to do an autopsy to find the cause of death." She laid her cheek against his broad chest. "Her apartment will have to be gone through and her things removed. Then I have to decide whether to have her cremated or bring her home to Jacobsville and bury her there, near our parents."

"Rachel wouldn't have cared what you did with her," he said coldly.

"I'd really rather have her cremated," she told him sadly. She didn't want to mention that the expense of transporting a coffin to Jacobsville was too overwhelming for her. She was sure that Rachel had no health insurance, or life insurance. And even if she had, there was no doubt that Jerry would have had himself put on the policy as beneficiary. But that still left Ivy with the funeral expense.

"Then, we'll see about doing that," Stuart said after a minute. "But first things first. We'll go to the morgue, then we'll find a funeral home. After we've made the arrangements, we'll go back to her apartment and see what needs doing there."

"You make everything sound so simple," she remarked.

"Most things are. It's just a matter of organization."

She sat up on his lap, dabbing at her eyes. "Sorry. I just lost it when I saw you. I thought I'd have to do all this alone."

He pulled out a white handkerchief and put it in her hands. "Dry your eyes. Then we'll call your sergeant and get the process started. Okay?"

She smiled. "Okay."

Stuart tried to keep her from looking at Rachel, but she insisted. She wanted to see how her sister looked.

It was bad. Rachel was gray. There was no expression on her face, although it was pockmarked and very thin. She looked gruesome, but it was definitely Rachel.

Stuart and Sergeant Ames escorted her back to Ames's office, where they sat around his desk drinking cups of black coffee until Ivy was fortified enough to talk.

"We're going to have an autopsy done," Ames told them, "but the medical examiner says it's pretty conclusive that she died of a ma.s.sive overdose of cocaine."

"Is that why she looks the way she does?" Ivy asked, dabbing at her eyes with Stuart's handkerchief. "I mean, her face looks pockmarked."

"That's the crystal meth she'd been using," he replied. "It's the most deadly drug we deal with these days. It ravages the user. A few months on it and they look like zombies."

"Why?" she asked suddenly. "Why would anyone use something like that in the first place?"

"People have been asking that question for years, and we still don't have an answer. It's one of the most addictive drugs," the detective told her gently. "Once it gets into their systems, people will literally kill to get it."

"How horrible," she said, and meant it.

"How long had she been using?" he asked Ivy.

"Since she was in high school," she told him dully. "I told my father, but he didn't believe me. He said Rachel would never do drugs." She laughed hollowly. "She'd come to see us when she was high as a kite, and my father never even noticed."

"Her father drank," Stuart interrupted solemnly. "I don't think he noticed much."

Ivy grimaced. "I never imagined she'd end up like this."

"What about her boyfriend?" Stuart wanted to know.

Ames shrugged. "We've managed to get a couple of convictions against him, but even so, he gets out of jail in no time, and goes right back to his old tricks. A couple of his clients are powerful figures in the city."

"On all the best television shows, the drug dealers go away for life," Ivy pointed out.

Ames chuckled. "I wish it was that way. It's not. For hundreds of reasons, drug dealers never get the sentences they deserve."

"When will they do the autopsy?" Ivy asked.

"Probably tonight," Ames said. "They don't have a backlog, for the first time in months. Once we have a cause of death, we can decide where to go from there."

"What about her apartment?" Ivy asked. "Is it all right for us to go there?"

"Yes," he replied and, reaching into his middle desk drawer, produced a key. "This is a copy of the key to her apartment, which we have in the property room. I thought you'd need access, so I had this one made. We've already processed her apartment."

"I'll need to clean it out and pack up whatever little family memorabilia she kept, so I can take it home with me," Ivy said dully.

"How well do you know Jerry Smith?" the detective asked her.

"I've seen him a few times," she replied. "I never liked him. I have migraine headaches," she added. "He came home with Rachel when our father died. I had the headache and he switched my medicine for some powerful narcotics. I realized he'd subst.i.tuted something for my prescription pills, and I refused to take what he gave me. He thought it was funny."

Stuart looked murderous. "You never told me that," he accused.

"I knew what you'd do if you found out," she replied. "That man looks to me like he has some really dangerous connections."

"I have a few of my own," Stuart replied curtly. "Including two Texas Rangers, an FBI agent and our local sheriff. You should have told me."

She grimaced. "I was glad when Rachel and Jerry went back to New York."

"I'm not surprised," the sergeant said. "I have your sister's effects in the property room. If you'll come with me, I'll get them for you. You'll have to sign them out."

"All right." She stood up, feeling numb. "Thank you for being so kind."

"It goes with the job description," he a.s.sured her.

Stuart had hired a limousine. Ivy found it fascinating. She wished she wasn't so transparent to him. He seemed amused that she wanted to know everything about the expensive transportation.

He had the driver wait for them at Rachel's apartment building. He escorted Ivy up the stairs to the second floor apartment and opened the door. It was just the way Rachel had left it, except for the white outline that showed where her body had been.

Ivy was taken aback at the graphic evidence of her sister's death. She stood there for a moment until she could get her emotions under control. "I don't know where to begin," she said.

"Try the bedroom," Stuart suggested. "I'll go through the drawers in the living room."

"Okay."

She wandered into Rachel's bedroom, her eyes on the ratty pink coverlet, the scattered old shoes, the faded curtains. Rachel had always told everybody back home that she was getting good parts in Broadway plays and making gobs of money. Ivy had even believed it.

But she should have realized that Rachel wouldn't have been so persistent about their father's money unless she was hurting for it. A rich woman would have less need for a parent's savings.

Ivy opened the bedside table, feeling like a thief as she looked inside. There was a small book with an embroidered cover. A diary. Absently, Ivy stuck it in the pocket of her jacket and moved to the dresser.

There was hardly anything in the dresser except for some faded silk lingerie and underwear. The closet, however, was a surprise. Inside were ten exquisite and expensive evening gowns and two coats. Ivy touched them. Fur. Real fur. There were expensive high heeled shoes in every color of the rainbow on the floor of the closet.

She opened the jewelry box on the dresser and gasped. It could be costume jewelry, of course, but it didn't look cheap. There were emeralds and diamonds and rubies in rings and necklaces and earrings. It looked like a king's ransom of jewelry. What in the world had Rachel done to get all this, she wondered?

Stuart came in, his hands deep in his pockets, frowning. "She's got a big plasma television, a top-of-the-line DVD player and some furniture that came from exclusive antique shops. How did she manage all that without visible means of support?"

"That's a good question," Ivy replied. "Look at this."

Stuart looked over her shoulder at the jewels. He picked up a ring and looked at the inscription inside the band. "Eighteen karat gold," he murmured. "The stones are real, too."

"Do you think she stole them?" Ivy asked worriedly.

"I don't think it's likely that she owned them," he replied. "There's about a hundred thousand dollars worth, right here in this tray."

Her gasp was audible. "I thought it might be costume jewelry."

He tilted her chin up to his eyes. "You don't know a lot about luxury, do you, honey?" he asked softly. He bent and touched his mouth gently to hers. "I like you that way."

The touch of his mouth was almost her undoing, but she couldn't forget the task at hand. "Where do you think she got all this?" she persisted.

"If she was hanging out with a millionaire, I imagine he gave it to her."

"His wife will want it all back."

He nodded. "If she knows it's here." He frowned. "I'm surprised that Ames didn't take it and put it in the property room."

"Maybe he thought it was fake, too."

He chuckled. "No. That guy knows his business. He may have some sort of surveillance camera in here, waiting to see if anyone carries off the jewels."

"That's not a bad idea," she mused.

He closed the lid of the jewelry box. "No, it isn't." He checked his watch. "It's going on lunchtime. We can go back to my hotel and have room service send something up to us."

"I have my own room," she reminded him.

"We'll cancel it and pick up your suitcase," he replied. "I'm not letting you out of my sight," he added somberly. "Especially while we don't know exactly why your sister died."

She started to argue. He held up a hand. "I won't give up or give in. Just come along and don't fight it."

"You're very domineering," she accused.

"Years of working cattle has ruined me for polite society," he said with a twinkle in his pale eyes.