Vestavia Village, 4:00 p.m.

Jess finished her tea and placed the glass on the elegant crystal tray waiting on the coffee table in the middle of Frances Wallace’s unexpectedly opulent gathering room. Not a living room or great room or den, she had explained to Jess. The condos had gathering rooms with mini kitchens equipped for serving cold refreshments. No cooking kitchens or dining rooms. There was no need. The residents’ meals were served in the facility’s dining hall.

At least this way there was no worry about anyone accidentally burning the place down.

“This won’t stop them,” Lucille argued. “The construction will continue anyway. Our situation has not changed. At all. Why would we want to kill Scott much less bother doing so?” The last she delivered with a look that proclaimed the mere idea grated like broken glass against her delicate sensibilities.

Lucille Blevins was as blunt as Frances and about as delicate as the Glock Jess carried. She was the eldest of the group and made sure everyone understood that detail carried certain privileges.

And the two janitors had called Frances the ringleader. Ha!

Frances sighed loudly. “Mercy alive, Lucille. No one’s saying that.”

“You said it.” Polly Neal lifted her thin chin in consternation. “Said you wanted him dead. I heard you. So did everyone else.”

Molly Jones, Polly’s twin, nodded adamantly. “I heard it too.” She turned to the others. “We all heard it. Didn’t we?”

The heads of the other three, Geraldine Lusk, Colleen Sharp, and Pansy Cornelius, moved up and down in frantic agreement. They stole a glance at Jess and stopped abruptly. Then another of those free-for-alls started with everyone assuring Jess that Frances would never hurt anyone. Absolutely not. Not even Scott Baker.

No wonder Frances felt compelled to rally around these ladies despite every last one of them being a tattletale. Well into their eighties, all lacked the actual know-how to dive into a war against the facility’s board unless their strategy was to frustrate them to death. The sort of ladies who lived their whole lives with husbands taking care of everything. Nothing wrong with that for those who chose that lifestyle. Had Jess’s mother lived, she would have been the same way. Lily’s relationship with her husband wasn’t that different even now.

Jess could not imagine leaving all that control up to the man in her life—when she had a man in her life.

She supposed Dan was kind of in her life. Sort of.

No one made Jess’s decisions for her. The last time that happened, she’d spent from age ten to eighteen in a carousel of foster homes. The day she turned eighteen she made up her mind that would never happen again. Her livelihood and happiness would never depend on anyone else.

She hauled herself back to the present. Following up on the statements made by the widows was nothing more than a formality. Lori had taken each, one at a time, to Frances’s balcony and gone over her statement while Jess attempted to explain how the investigation worked and the roles the ladies played in bringing to light the events of the past twenty-four hours. Prescott and Cook had already done the initial interviews but Jess needed to do this. Mostly to reassure herself that she wasn’t missing anything.

That was working out just great so far. Not.

Bless their hearts. Jess reached for more patience and waited out this latest squabble. They were cute as buttons and for the most part sweet as could be. Except maybe for the twins. Those two were vicious little old ladies from what Jess had gathered so far. Looked as if they were ready to throw Frances under the bus and back up a couple of times.

During a moment of silence as they all caught their breaths and wet their whistles, Frances stared longingly at her tea as if she wished it were something far stronger. “Ladies,” she said in a surprisingly calm voice, “I said nothing about killing Scott Baker or wanting him dead. What I said was,” she stated firmly when mouths opened to protest, “I hoped to live long enough to see him eat those words and die. I didn’t mean I wanted him to literally die. I meant he should go to hell.”

“You could’ve just said that,” Lucille demanded. “Maybe then we wouldn’t be in this hellacious predicament.”

A collective round of gasps from the others punctuated the statements.

Frances looked heavenward. “God, help me.”

Jess cleared her throat. “Ladies.”

All eyes shifted to her. At least she had their attention again. The question was, how long could she keep it?

“None of you are suspects in this case. You are only persons of interest. But your statements are important to the investigation.” Jess kept her hands folded in her lap in hopes of presenting a calm, cool demeanor. She sure didn’t need any of these ladies having a stroke or a heart attack. Try explaining a scene like that to the press. “Anything you remember beyond what you’ve shared in your statement could be useful in finding the person who did this awful thing.”

Molly and Polly shared a look. “You mean we’re not in any sort of trouble?” the latter asked.

“No, ma’am,” Jess assured her. “We only needed to go over your statements regarding where you were last night and to discuss whatever you might know about any enemies Mr. Baker may have had.”

“You mean beyond every single soul he met?” Lucille challenged.

“Do you know of any specific person or persons with whom Mr. Baker had trouble?” Jess tried again.

“Scott Baker was a very savvy businessman, Jess,” Frances said. “He told me once that he’d never met anyone he couldn’t charm when it came to negotiations.” She lifted her glass in a salute. “Besides me, of course.”

“No one other than the seven of you were against this new construction?” Jess tried a different tactic.

Heads wagged. “They’re all too afraid to speak up,” Lucille explained.

“Why would anyone be afraid to speak up?” That was the first time she’d heard that one.

The widows clammed up as if she’d asked which one lost her virginity first.

“We pay well for this luxury,” Frances spoke up when no one else would. “But there are rules. Opening hours for the dining room and the little movie theater we all love so much. He made it a point to learn our habits, what we enjoyed, and then when we crossed him about this, he took the things we cared about away.”

“Give me an example,” Jess prompted, her dislike for the deceased mounting.

“I have dinner with my daughter’s family on Monday nights. Afterward I come back here and enjoy a cup of tea in the dining room with my friends before retiring for the evening. He instructed Ms. Warren to stop serving tea after eight.” She waved her arms to indicate her lovely home. “We’re not allowed to cook in our condos, not even with a microwave. We can’t even have a coffeemaker or a teapot.”

“He fired my hairdresser,” Polly said. “I won’t let anyone else touch my hair.” She patted her curly gray locks. “From the day the salon opened, Deidra was my stylist. He fired her. I can’t make arrangements to go to the new shop in town where Deidra works since one of the occupancy rules require we use the on-site salon.”

“I’m addicted to hot fudge pie.” Lucille wrapped her arms around her waist as if the confession drew everyone’s attention to her healthy middle. “As soon as I signed that petition to stop construction, the dining room stopped serving my pie.”

Jess leaned forward, outrage kindling in her belly. None of these instances were exactly torture tactics but the man was strong-arming these old women. No, he was bullying them. “Have you contacted attorneys to have your contracts reviewed?” There had to be a law against this mistreatment.

“It’s all in the fine print,” Frances announced, the weight of the battle she’d been waging showing on her face. “Baker was a brilliant businessman. He may not have charmed me but he certainly outmaneuvered me.”

“No enemies to your knowledge, other than the residents such as yourselves who were unhappy with him?” Jess should get this interview back on track. “No one in particular who came around that stirred your interest in what he might be up to?” This was as close as Jess would get to outright asking if the man was having an affair. She wanted these ladies to give her information, not the answers they thought she wanted to hear.

“No one I can recall,” Frances said first.

Lucille shook her head.

Jess tried a different tactic. “No problems with his deputy administrator or his secretary?”

“They’re having an affair,” Polly said in a stage whisper.

Now they were getting somewhere. “Mr. Baker and his secretary?” Jess asked.

“Oh no!” Molly laughed. “Baker was too boring for that. Mr. Clemmons and the secretary are having an affair.”

Everyone in the room started tossing out the latest gossip they’d heard. Jess held up her hands to quiet them. “We need facts, ladies. Just the facts.” Whatever the deputy administrator was doing, Scott Baker had sex with someone before his murder.

“If Baker was having an affair,” Frances said as if she were the final authority in the matter, “he was very discreet. I’ve never heard a rumor like that about him.”

Jess waited for her to go on. As did the others, fortunately.

“Scott loved his wife. He loved his son. He loved his life.” For a bit Frances looked as if she might weep. “I despised his business tactics but”—she drew in a deep breath—“he would never have hurt his wife or any other woman like that. He wasn’t that kind of man. He worked. He went home to his family. That’s it.”

“How can you be so certain?” Lucille demanded, her gaze narrow with suspicion.

“I hired a PI.” Frances gave a little half shrug. “So sue me. I figured if I could find some dirt on him, we could be rid of him. Maybe if there was evidence he’d used his position in some inappropriate manner to manipulate the Your Life corporation coming in and taking over, then we could undo this mess. What I discovered was that he was a cutthroat businessman. He lied to us at every opportunity and, worse, he stole the peace we all deserved.”

“And paid for,” Polly added for good measure.

“A private investigator?” All the frustration and impatience Jess had been holding back whipped out of her on those three words. “You have a background investigation and surveillance reports and you didn’t think to mention that?”

Frances heaved another big sigh. “I didn’t want to look any guiltier than I already do. Hiring a PI is a little extreme. I recognize that now. But I was flustered and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I’ll need those reports immediately,” Jess warned. “As in right this minute.”

“You can have them.” Frances got up from her camel-back sofa and walked over to a table near the door. “But the reports are full of nothing.” She crossed back to Jess and handed her a pathetically thin manila folder.

Jess stood. “Thank you, ladies.” She surveyed the group. “I appreciate your cooperation.” She smiled and just for the devil of it said, “Now don’t y’all be leaving town until I give you the go-ahead.”

She strode toward the door with Frances hot on her heels and the other six whispering loud enough for folks in the next condo to hear.

“Jess, you know I didn’t mean any harm keeping that from you. I forgot, that’s all.”

She wanted to be upset with her favorite teacher but that just wasn’t possible, so she whispered back, “This better be the only thing you didn’t tell me about.”

“I swear.” Frances held up the two fingers signifying Scout’s honor.

Jess opened the door but decided to give Frances one last counsel. “Keep your widows under control.” Then she was out of there.

This widows’ club didn’t know a thing that would help the Baker investigation. Jess was confident of that assessment. Still, as a cop, the truth was that the only thing preventing Frances Wallace from becoming a full-fledged suspect was Jess’s certainty that the killer had been far stronger and faster than her.

Lori waited in the courtyard, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Judging by her exasperated hand gestures, she was not too happy with her caller. She and Chet Harper had just moved in together. Was there trouble in paradise already? Chet had a three-year-old son. Lori was worried about whether the child liked her or not. Maybe that was the real issue.

Jess wished she could make the younger woman understand that these things took time and patience. Something she’d never had enough of. That was why, at forty-two, she was alone unless you counted her off-the-record affair with her boss.

The man she was supposed to have married twenty years ago.

Another hard lesson learned about not relying on others or love or money.

Jess booted the past back to its place deep in the nether regions of her gray matter. She had a homicide to solve.

Lori looked up as Jess drew nearer. She quickly ended the call but there was no speedy way to banish the mixture of emotions from her face. She was worried and frustrated. Jess was confident her frustrations had nothing to do with the widows.

“That was Harper.”

“Everything all right?”

Lori joined her progression toward the parking area. Jess put her hand on her arm and stopped her for a moment. “Just look at that view.” She admired the calm water of the lake. The birds dipping down for a drink with the breeze playing with the lovely ornamental grasses nestled around its rocky shore.

When the sun dropped amid the trees in the distance, it would be a breathtaking sight. No wonder the board was anxious to squeeze more out of this view. According to the plans she had seen in Baker’s office, the new condo tower would be far taller and larger than the one Frances and her friends occupied. Leaving them absolutely no scenic view whatsoever.

Jess moved on. “You were saying Harper called?”

“Mrs. Baker is back home and she wants to speak to the person in charge of her husband’s case.” Lori hit the clicker to unlock her Mustang. “Like right now.”

That was generally Jess’s line. Since the wife had been out of town and the mayor had been keeping word of her return under wraps, Jess was glad someone wanted to help with this investigation rather than hinder it.

“Let’s hope there’s something she can add to the investigation.” Maybe Mrs. Baker knew what her husband was up to when she wasn’t home.

Jess fastened her seat belt and waited as Lori maneuvered off the property. If she chose not to talk about whatever was going on between her and Harper, Jess would understand. She hoped their relationship wouldn’t damage the SPU team. She wanted both Lori and Harper working with her. Keeping their personal lives separate from the job wasn’t going to be easy. Jess knew that firsthand.

She opened the manila folder Frances had given her to have a look at the PI’s report.

“He doesn’t want me in his father’s house.”

The words burst out of Lori as if a dam had cracked. Jess turned to her. Her profile told the rest of the story. Lori Wells was on the verge of tears. That was way out of character for the tough-as-nails lady who had survived days on end as the hostage of a ruthless serial killer.

“Give it time. It’s too soon to expect a child so young to accept you.” Jess wished she had advice more immediately comforting. At three, Chet’s son was old enough to be fearful and standoffish with strangers. And yet too young to understand that his father had a new friend he wanted to keep around.

“I don’t know.” Lori’s lips trembled. “He doesn’t want to be in the room with me. He stays hidden behind his father and he doesn’t want me close. At all. Maybe I shouldn’t be there when he comes over. I could go to my place. Make things simpler.”

“No.”

Lori braked for an intersection. She turned to Jess with a question or hope amid the despair on her face.

“If you give him that,” Jess promised, “you will never become a part of his new normal. You have to stay the course. Be strong and steady. Be there. Keep smiling and trying to interact. He’ll come around in time.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears.” She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and took a deep breath as if needing the cleansing effect. “Your friend is a character.”

Jess smiled. As much as she wanted to shake Frances right now, she still adored her. “Yeah. I know.” Speaking of Frances, Jess turned her attention back to the manila folder. She scanned the first report. “Do you know a private investigator who calls himself or his business Tracker?”

“Tracker?” Lori glanced at her. “Are you serious? I mean, the Tracker?”

Jess rifled through the four pages in the folder. “That’s the only name on the reports.”

Lori grinned. “Tracker. I can’t believe it. I think you’re going to want to talk to him. Maybe even before we talk to Mrs. Baker. What time is it?”

Jess checked her cell. “Five-twenty.”

Lori got one of those aha looks. “I know where to find him. He’s like clockwork. Rumor is every day at five he lands on the same barstool with a beer in his hand.”

“Who the hell is this guy?” What in the world was Frances doing dealing with someone who spent that much time in bars? Frances Wallace epitomized etiquette and principles—most of the time anyway.

“Some cops would call him a lowlife scumbag if you could even get them to say his name out loud. But”—Lori paused, seeming to choose her next words carefully—“others say he’s a damned good investigator when he wants to be. I was curious. I read up on him. Until a few years ago, Buddy Corlew was a legend in the department.”

“Did you say Corlew?” No way. “Forty-something?” Jess snapped her sagging jaw shut.

“That’s him,” Lori confirmed. “You know the guy?”

Jess leaned back in her seat, almost anticipating the opportunity that had fallen into her lap. “Let’s just say that I knew him once.”

The Garage, 10th Terrace South, 5:12 p.m.

Jess had to hand it to her old friend. If he was going to spend his evenings hanging out in a bar, this place definitely had some charm. From the rusty sign out front to the wisteria climbing over the iron gate and garden statues, a welcoming atmosphere just reached out and enveloped anyone who got close. Inside, there was more of the same. Lots of friendly conversations at the rustic bistro tables and along the bar, even for a Tuesday night.

One man sat alone at the far end of the bar, a vacant stool separating him from the rest of the patrons. Buddy Corlew was an island. The only thing here that could touch him was the lively music blasting from the speakers.

While Lori melted into the crowd, Jess made her way to that unoccupied stool. He didn’t look up as she settled in next to him. Just as well. Gave her a moment to study his profile. Not much had changed. The threadbare jeans and T-shirt and cowboy boots had always been the mainstay of his wardrobe. He still sported that trademark ponytail. Only the slicked back hair was more salt than pepper now. Crow’s-feet had made themselves at home. He’d filled out a little around the middle. Definitely no longer quarterback material but then she had no room to talk. It was hell getting older.

“If you’re that interested,” Corlew suggested without turning his head to meet her steady gaze, “I’m happy to buy you a beer and give you my number.”

“I got your number twenty-four years ago, Corlew,” she advised, “the night you tried to talk me out of my panties.”

He turned to her, the lopsided grin that had broken many an innocent heart making an appearance. “I don’t expect I’d be any more successful now than I was then.”

Jess smiled. “I don’t expect you would.”

“I heard you were back in town.”

“I’m pretty hard to miss.” Considering she’d been all over the news, that was an understatement.

“You and Dan back together?”

“He’s my boss,” Jess skirted the question.

Corlew grunted. Could mean anything or nothing at all.

“I hear you’ve got your own shop now,” she prodded, since he didn’t seem inclined to launch into conversation.

Corlew had gone straight from high school to the Marines. It was either that or do jail time for busting too many heads. Back in the day, Buddy Corlew was the badass of Birmingham—a tough guy who rode a Harley and stole the prettiest girls from the rich boys in town.

But there had been one girl, hard as he tried, he hadn’t been able to steal away from the rich boy she loved. Jess shook off the foolish thoughts. God, that was a long time ago.

“That’s right.” Forearms braced on the counter, bottle of beer in hand, he turned to Jess. “After I lost yet another battle with Burnett four years ago, I decided I was better off working for me instead of the establishment.”

On the way here from Vestavia Village, Lori had explained how Buddy Corlew had achieved the status of veteran detective with nearly a dozen years under his belt at the Birmingham Police Department. As the story went, he’d had his own way of doing things and spent more time stepping on toes than following the rules. He’d butted heads with Burnett one time too many. When Burnett was appointed chief of police, Corlew was out of there.

There was more to the story, Jess suspected. Eventually she would get the rest from Burnett.

“Frances Wallace hired you to find the dirt on Scott Baker. According to the reports she showed me, you didn’t have any luck.”

He bunched up one shoulder, then let it relax in an indifferent shrug. “You can’t find dirt that doesn’t exist. Besides, you know I can’t discuss a case with you.”

Jess reached into her bag for her badge, then placed it on the counter. “In case you haven’t heard, Scott Baker is dead. Murdered. It’s my case. Frances gave me the file you provided. You have a question about that, you can call her. Otherwise, I have a few questions, Mr. Corlew. You want to answer them here or you want to take a ride downtown?”

He downed the rest of the beer and pushed the empty longneck aside. “Scott Baker was squeaky clean, Chief Harris. Not even a parking ticket. His wife too. Hell, I even checked out that swanky retirement facility he runs—ran. Nothing shady there either except a slick businessman determined to make his daddy proud.” The waiter grabbed the empty bottle and plunked down a replacement in a passing swoop.

Corlew gave the waiter a nod, then carried on with his story. “They’re building another swanky joint called Windswept Village down in Orange Beach. These guys aren’t interested in murder. They’re too busy making money off folks like Frances Wallace and her wealthy friends.”

Jess stowed her badge and fished out a business card. New ones that no longer listed her as a special agent for the FBI. She’d picked them up on her lunch break yesterday. “If you suddenly remember something you believe relates to my case, I’d appreciate a phone call.”

He gave the card a thorough perusal as she slid off the stool. “If I don’t remember anything relevant,” he asked, “can I call you anyway?”

Jess suppressed a laugh. Same old Corlew. “You can try.”

Just like twenty-four years ago, she walked away without looking back.