More crime scene tape. The inner perimeter. They ducked under. The Queen’s room, essentially an office. Writing desk. Credenza. Discreet file cabinets.
Except for the eye catching, life-size display: Queen’s garb—beaded gown, faux fur stole; photographs of the young and lovely Vivianne; framed newspaper clippings; display cases filled with memorabilia.
So eye-catching she almost missed the real deal: Vivianne Stanley on the floor in a pool of blood. Stanley’s head was a mess. Scepter there, by the body, bloodied. Even from this distance she could make out fingerprints on the scepter’s staff.
“Looks like Chuckles called it,” Angelo said.
Micki murmured agreement and moved on. “Perp didn’t bother with stealth. Crime of passion. Unorganized.”
“Looks like first blow came from behind.”
“Stanley stumbled, turned—” Micki indicated the blood trail, spatter on the fancy-ass rug.“Our UNSUB kept at her.”
Fury. Hatred. Jealousy. Trifecta of ugly.
Personal. Very.
In unison, she and Angelo fitted on gloves, inched closer, squatted beside the body.
The scepter had left a fleur-de-lis imprint on Stanley’s remarkably unlined forehead. A lone rhinestone had come free and imbedded there; it seemed to wink up at them.
“How old you think she was?” he asked.
“Queen of Rex in ‘69, that would make her seventy plus.”
He cocked his head and snapped his gum. “Pretty well preserved. Neither of my grannies looked like this.”
“My grandma did. All it takes is money. A lot of it.”
Micki felt his questioning gaze on her but didn’t acknowledge it, stood and crossed to the desk. She frowned slightly. Obviously, Stanley had been a neat and tidy sort, yet several files laid open on her desk. Drops of blood, bloody fingerprints. Perp was looking for something.
Micki thumbed through. Mailing lists. Returned RSVP cards. Several invitations to said event.
Queen’s Tea. Windsor Court Hotel. Today at four P.M.
“You found something?” he asked.
She looked at him. He had made his way from the body to the display case along the back wall. The lid of one case stood open.
“Invitations and RSVPs for an event today,” she answered. “Perp’s prints all over them. You?”
“Two things missing from this display.
“Scepter?”
He nodded. “And crown.”
She frowned, moved her gaze over the scene one more time. “So, where is it?”
“Good question.”
From the foyer came the sound of the paramedics arriving. More officers. She wouldn’t be surprised if the chief showed up. Vivianne Stanley wasn’t just any vic, she was New Orleans royalty.
Chapter Two
2:00 P.M.
Micki and Angelo agreed to interview the housekeeper first and had asked the other two to wait on the patio. They’d both seemed eager to get out of the house and into the sun.
Hunger had taken a left turn into a bad attitude. Micki decided if she didn’t get a sandwich soon, she just might bite somebody’s head off.
It didn’t help that they’d decided to conduct interviews in the enormous kitchen; she was having a hard time keeping her focus on the housekeeper. The lunch spread on the counter—including a triple layer chocolate caked decorated with strawberries and coconut—was starting to make her twitch.
“May I fix you a plate?”
Micki jerked her gaze to the housekeeper. Kind eyes. Somebody’s mother. Not hers. Not by a long shot.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cook, but no.”
“It’s just going to go to waste.”
“No, really—”
“Nonsense.” She stood and crossed to the spread. “Mr. Stanley is out of town and it wouldn’t be proper for me to take it.”
“Why not, Mrs. Cook?”
“Because it wasn’t offered to me. You’re guests in this house.”
She’d been called a lot of things by potential witnesses, but never that. It had a nice ring to it, she decided. No way she was going to refuse a third time.
The woman fixed the two plates, brought them to the table, then went back and poured two glasses of iced tea from the pitcher.
Two tumblers, Micki realized. Two plates. “You say Mr. Stanley is out of town?”
“That’s right. A business…” She stopped, eyes widening. “I haven’t…how am I going…to tell him?”
“Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Cook,” Angelo said gently. “We’ll notify Mr. Stanley.”
She nodded, eyes filling with tears.
Micki went on. “Was Vivianne, Mrs. Stanley, expecting company for lunch?”
Her expression went blank. “Yes, Steve. Her personal trainer.”
“The one out on the patio? Mr. Stone?”
“That’s right.”
Micki eyed the plate in front of her. Besides the chocolate cake, there was bacon quiche and flaky, miniature croissants, both glistening with fat. A fat and carb nightmare. What kind of personal trainer ate that? Certainly not Mr. Iron Abs, Arms, and Ass out on the patio.
Luckily, her job didn’t require her to wear spandex shorts. She took a big bite of the quiche and almost melted like the butter used to make it.