“Not that we know of, Ms. Vanderlund. When do you expect her back?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Why do you need to talk to her?”
“Do you know Vivianne Stanley?”
She stiffened. “I do.”
“I see by your expression you don’t like her.”
“She’s not a nice person.”
“Not a nice person,” Micki repeated “Why do you say that?”
“She’s a snob. And a bigot, by the way. Constantly reminding my mother, who’s the sweetest person on the planet, that she’s not good enough. My mother, who’s kind to everyone, volunteers all her time and—hello—doesn’t look down on anyone because of income, ethnicity, or anything else.”
The reserved young woman had become passionate. Not with hatred towards Stanley, but in defense of her mother.
“Why,” she went on, “Mom keeps working with that woman on all her pet projects, I’ll never get.”
“Was your mother working with Mrs. Stanley on the Queen’s Tea?”
“Of course not,” she said tightly. “That’s work’s only fit for a queen. Or her hired help.”
Micki glanced at Angelo, working to keep her excitement from showing. She might be new to the Detective Bureau, but she’d have to be blind not to see this had motive written all over it. “Would you say your mother’s obsessed with Mardi Gras?”
She folded her arms across her chest, gaze sharpening. “You still haven’t told me what you want with her.”
“Mrs. Stanley was murdered this morning,” Angelo said.
“Murdered?” She brought a hand to her chest. “Oh, my God.”
Micki noticed her fingertips were painted a soft, petal pink. “We understand your mother was there to see her around the same time as the murder.”
She swayed slightly, grabbed the door casing for support. “Mom wasn’t…she wasn’t hurt?”
“Your mother left the scene unharmed.”
“Thank God. Thank—” She crossed to the couch and sank onto it. She held her hands up. “Look at me, my hands are shaking.” She dropped them to her lap, visibly pulling herself together. “Do you have any idea who did it?”
“We do, Ms. Vanderlund. In fact, we have the perpetrator on video.”
“That’s good.” She let out a long breath. “I didn’t like the woman, but that doesn’t mean—” She bit the words back. “But if you have the killer on surveillance video…why do you need to talk to my mother?”
She moved her gaze between them, disbelief growing in her wide eyes. She shook her head. “Ridiculous.”
“What’s that, Ms. Vanderlund?”
“That my mother could hurt anyone.”
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Vanderlund, but the person caught on the surveillance video was your mother.”
“No,” she said, getting to her feet. “That’s simply not possible.”
“It’s more than a possibility or speculation.”
“Please leave our home. You’re no longer welcome here.”
“There’s no question she did it,” Angelo said softly. “She left the scene covered in blood and wearing Vivianne Stanley’s crown.”
Micki stepped in. “We have a warrant for her arrest, Ms. Vanderlund. A BOLO has been issued for her and her vehicle, and it’s only a matter of time until we locate her.”
“And I’m sure,” Angelo added, “you’d like her arrest to be as trauma free as possible. Help us see to it that it goes down that way.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
Micki turned. Mr. Vanderlund. Stationed in the doorway, an indignant thundercloud.
“Daddy!” Tori jumped to her feet and ran to his side.
Micki watched as Tori was enveloped in his arms. She had never quite come to grips with the southern practice of grown women calling their fathers daddy. But maybe she didn’t understand because she’d never had one.
Until now, she thought. Until Hank. He was the father she never had.
But she sure-as-hell wasn’t about to call him daddy.
“It’s okay, baby,” he said, leading her to the couch, cradling her to his side. “I’m here.”
“They say Mom killed that awful woman!” she cried. “That Vivianne Stanley. They say they have proof!”
“That’s ridiculous, sweetheart. Your mother couldn’t hurt a flea. We’ll get this all straightened out, Tori baby.” He handed her his handkerchief and shifted his attention to them, gaze settling on Angelo. “You’d better start talking, Detective.”
While Angelo explained, Micki studied Vanderlund’s expression. Outraged disbelief didn’t quite cover it. It took several minutes to convince him this was for real and that his wife was in deep trouble. The confident and powerful man who had burst into the room seemed to deflate before her eyes.
“You’re absolutely certain the woman in the video was my Bitty?”
“One hundred percent, Mr. Vanderlund. I’m sorry.”
“What now?” he asked, voice shaking.
“Anything you could tell us about her state of mind would be helpful.”
“State of mind,” he repeated. “This morning? She was fine. Cheerful. Positive.”