They’d spoken with Lenora’s latest beau yesterday. A wealthy widower who’d only recently moved to the city from Dallas.
Of everyone they’d spoken with, he’d been the most visibly upset by the news. Really, truly upset. And as they weren’t married, he had no financial motivation to kill her. Even if the man weren’t loaded himself—and he was definitely loaded—he had to have known that he wouldn’t earn a penny from her death.
But money could be a powerful motivator for her exes. If she was on good terms with any of them, there was always a chance they could end up in her will.
“Oh, goodness no,” Dorothy said with a dismissive wave. “As skilled as Lenora was at drawing men to her, she was equally adept at driving them away when she tired of them.”
“Tired of them?” Vincent asked. “They’re not shoes.”
Jill silently echoed the question.
It was an odd way of describing a failed relationship. It spoke of a woman who entered relationships to stave off boredom, or a woman prone to fits and starts of passion as little more than a whim.
“No, of course men aren’t shoes, Detective.” Dorothy took a sip of her tea. “But for Lenora, they may as well have been.”
“She was… fickle?” Jill asked, searching for the right word.
Dorothy’s lips pursed. “More like… Hmm, how do I say this? Lenora was always very aware of how removed she could be from other people. Men in particular. She tended to throw herself into one relationship after another in hopes of connecting with someone.”
“Did she ever? Connect, I mean?” Jill asked, taking a sip of her own tea to be polite. She didn’t have to turn around to know that Vincent probably hadn’t touched his.
“Oh, for a time she would. A few months. A couple years, with some of them. But they always wanted more than she had to give. They’d get jealous. Demanding. Needy. And that’s when Lenora would move on.”
“So it was always her that ended the relationship?” Jill asked.
“Generally, yes.”
Jill silently cursed.
It wasn’t ideal for crime solving. She’d hoped for one ex in particular that had been discarded. It would be a starting point. But from the way it was looking, they had four ex-husbands, two ex-fiancés, and an unknown number of unnamed lovers that could have been wooed and discarded by the famous Hollywood siren.
“Well except for Clayton Wallace,” Dorothy said as she pulled a delicate macaroon off a china plate and took a tiny nibble.
“Clayton Wallace?” Vin asked.
“Her third husband,” Jill said.
She’d done her homework last night when she couldn’t sleep.
“And he was different from the others?” Vincent prompted, the impatience in his voice seeping through as it always did.
Dorothy carefully wiped her fingers on a cloth napkin. “Only in that he was the only man who ever dumped Lenora.”
Jill leaned forward. “Why?”
Perhaps Lenora had cheated, or there’d been some sort of scandal. Perhaps one that Clayton Wallace hadn’t let go of, even after fifteen years…
Dorothy lifted one slim shoulder. “He was gay, of course. He and Lenora remained the best of friends, though. I believe he’s living in California now.”
Jill had to stop herself from slumping. A gay ex-husband with whom the victim was “the best of friends” was not exactly a prime suspect.
Vincent came around to the two women then and sat down beside Jill.
They weren’t touching… not quite. But suddenly Jill was distracted, because he smelled… like soap.
Not fancy cologne, no expensive aftershave.
Vincent Moretti smelled like soap, and it was… nice.
Had he always smelled like this? Maybe he’d gotten new soap. Maybe…
“Detective?”
Vincent was staring at her in confusion, and too late Jill realized that she was all but leaning into him. And judging from the expectant look on both of their faces, a question had been directed at her and Jill had missed it because she’d been too busy—
“Sorry, what?” she asked.
Vincent’s gaze dropped to her mouth for a single moment before his dark eyes lifted back to hers. “Ms. Birch asked if you’d care for more tea?”
“Oh. Oh! Yes. I’d love some.”
He lifted an eyebrow and flicked his eyes to her cup. It was nearly full.
She ignored this—and him—as she extended her cup and saucer to Dorothy, who politely didn’t comment on Jill’s full cup as she added just the tiniest splash from the pot.
“Yesterday you said that my sister had fallen—was likely pushed,” Dorothy was saying, her voice remarkably steady.
“Yes, ma’am,” Vincent said.
“And there was no chance it could have been an accident?”
“We don’t think so,” Jill said quietly. “The height of the railing… it would have taken some force—”
She broke off, not wanting to go into more details than she had to about this woman’s sister’s death.
Vin leaned forward. “Of course, we can’t officially rule it a homicide until we rule out suicide—”