A Southern Promise. Jennifer Lohmann

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      The desperation in her mom’s voice pinged through Julianne’s heart and echoed deep in her soul. Not just the sadness, but the realization that Aunt Binnie had often been a problem they had wished away. With her death had come a tinge of relief, and with that relief came a flood of guilt. Because they hadn’t really wanted her gone.

      “The detective—” such a bland word to use for the man who’d sat next to her in the car “—I talked to was the one she called every Wednesday. He seemed to know her.”

      “And he seemed competent, this detective?” One unsolved murder in the family had caused enough pain. “I could call Tamara and ask for the best detective the police department has.”

      “There’s no reason to call the mayor’s wife over this. The detective will be fine.” His hands... Well, if you could judge a man by the strength in his hands, then there was no man more competent for the job than the detective. He’d even gotten her to rat out her brother and his financial problems, which had felt like the right thing to do at the time, with Howie’s handkerchief stretched out on her knee.

      Now, in the bright light of her mom’s kitchen with pictures of her niece and nephew on the fridge, the confession felt like a betrayal. “He spoke, um, sympathetically of Aunt Binnie, but not pityingly.” If he’d even hinted that he’d ever made a crazy sign at his temples, Julianne would have called up the police chief herself to insist the case be reassigned.

      “Your brother will need to be told, if he doesn’t already know. And I suppose we’ll have to tell Rupert.” Distaste gave her mother’s words elbows. Rupert didn’t know he’d been written out of his grandmother’s will. He would raise a stink to accompany the slime that followed him everywhere.

      “We’ll need a statement for the media,” her mom said. “And we should start funeral arrangements.” The act of planning straightened her mother’s back and lowered her shoulders. “Bin bought that space next to Uncle Winston and I think she’s got a whole plan prepared.”

      Resignation and sorrow danced together on her mother’s face. She gave Julianne one last pat on the shoulder and then they retreated into the comfort of work and lists and plans, knowing the pain would be still be waiting for them when they were done.

      * * *

      “HOW WAS THE old lady?” Kia asked when Howie returned from the patrol car. Kitting himself out to tour the breakfast room where Mrs. Somerset’s body lay gave him something to concentrate on besides the uneasy realization that he’d been attracted to the woman he’d been questioning in the back of a patrol car.

      Julianne Dawson—wealthy, spoiled heiress to a tobacco fortune and niece of the deceased. He wasn’t sure which one of those facts made sniffing her hair worse.

      “Mrs. Somerset’s niece is not an old lady.” Even though Kia hadn’t been with the unit for very long, they’d found a good rhythm. Without so much as a nod, Kia led the way to the wall opposite the kitchen and near the entry from the dining room to the living room. “Mrs. Somerset’s grandniece is Julianne Dawson.”

      He should hand in his badge and confess to being a shitty-ass detective for not putting together Somerset and Somerset and getting Julianne. But Somersets were a dime a dozen in this part of North Carolina—he hadn’t realized that Mrs. Somerset was from that branch of the family.

      Of course, what had he known about Mrs. Somerset other than that her husband had been murdered and that she called in crime tips? By the time she’d been passed to his care, her calls and the department jokes about them had become background noise and he hadn’t even bothered to look into her husband’s murder and realize that she was the widow of the victim of the most infamous unsolved murder in Durham’s history. A murder for which Julianne’s father had been the prime suspect.

      He should walk right into his sergeant’s office and turn over his badge and gun, then walk out with his head hung so low he developed a permanent curve to his neck. Hell, he hadn’t even known how deep Mrs. Somerset’s obsessions ran. He’d been in her house some, those times when she’d been particularly upset on the phone. Yet he’d never stopped to look at the photographs on the mantel or to notice that one of the women in the photographs was Julianne Dawson, who’d been in the local papers since she was a child, tagging along behind her father. Somehow the fact that he’d had his beautiful daughter dressed like a princess and with him all the time was supposed to make his employees feel better when the mills closed and their jobs disappeared. As though Julianne’s angelic presence would make up for the day when a strong wind would blow and the downtown no longer smelled like bright-leaf tobacco.

      Whenever her photograph had been in the papers in Oxford, his mama had pointed it out, saying, “You should be next to your daddy like this.”

      His relatives in Durham probably looked at those pictures and saw their lost jobs and their struggles to learn new skills. Every time Howie had seen one of those pictures or heard the name Somerset, the memory of being abandoned by his father twisted in his gut. Because Howie was supposed to have grown up in a world of privilege like Julianne, not just brush against it.

      He was old enough now to understand that the story his mother had told him wasn’t the real story. David, his father, hadn’t promised his mother anything but a good time. He hadn’t abandoned Howie, either, but had sent regular child support checks and requested visits. But David had been a Somerset Tobacco vice president and resentment had started young with Howie, etched deep, contorting all his expectation of Somersets and the careless way wealthy people discarded others. He should probably hand the damned case over because he was biased against the entire family.

      But he wanted a chance to sit next to Julianne again. Not that continuing with this investigation would lead to that. Any further questioning would be done at a physical distance, and it would not involve Julianne climbing onto his lap.

      “Nicely done, Henson, nicely done. Only he would stuff local royalty in a squad car like that.” Kia’s comment brought Howie’s attention back to a couple points of interest around the room. He was an old pro at blocking out the unwelcome so that he could continue with his work.

      Before they moved on to the next yellow marker—this one near a blood splatter on the cushion of a dining chair—she asked, “Did you talk her out of calling the chief and pulling our badges?” Her lips were pursed together, not quite hiding a smirk. She’d be impossible if she knew that Howie had hoped Julianne would forget to give back his handkerchief. “Though, honestly, I don’t care if Henson gets pulled into chief’s office and bent over a desk. Cosmic justice for his crimes prior to cuffing Julianne Dawson—he’s a bully and gives all of us a bad name.” Kia pointed to some blood splatters on the wall, along with a hole in the drywall. “CSI’s already got photos of everything,” she said.

      “She may still call the chief.” The Somersets probably donated enough money to various police department charities to get a special “insulted rich person” ringtone that meant their calls were always answered. Durham didn’t really have society, but what it did have was represented by Julianne’s family. Not only was she related by blood to all the families who’d donated their names to streets surrounding downtown, but the Somerset money had survived the ups and downs of Durham’s economy, so she was on a friendly first-name basis with the fortunes being made in the Research Triangle Park. If the mayor didn’t listen to her because of who her parents were and who her grandparents had been, he would listen to her because she was buddies with the owner of the ballpark and had recently been quoted in the Wall Street Journal about innovation and start-ups in the Triangle. If the brief snippets in the Herald-Sun, Independent Weekly СКАЧАТЬ