Under His Protection. Amy J. Fetzer

help, but his fingers only flexed with a faint spring, then went still. Regret lanced through him, and her face filled his mind. Always her. She was his wife. She always would be.

      He hated being pitiful, pathetically weak. And he was. Completely. His heartbeat dropped another notch, and he couldn’t fill his lungs. Saliva dribbled from his mouth and down the side of his face. He heard a noise and blinked to focus. He hadn’t the strength to turn his head, and the indignity of it, the slovenliness, humiliated him.

      He’d have preferred a bullet between the eyes, messy as that would be. They would find him like this, he thought. Wet, naked and in God knew what state. A shadow moved, a shape forming in the faint light.

      Help! Thank God, help!

      His whimper shamed him, but he was desperate. Then the figure leaned over the bed. His eyes widened, but only a fraction. Rage and confusion ground down to the marrow of his bones, and he choked on words he couldn’t form, couldn’t push past his lips.

      Why?

      His killer smiled and watched him die.

      Chapter One

      The damp heat of Indigo in September still clung like a bad tempered child. By eight in the morning its punishing grip was firm and hot and wouldn’t be tamed till well past sunset. Locals were used to it, visitors complained about it, but that Detective Nash Couviyon had to investigate a suspicious death this early was an indecent slap to the beauty of the nearly three-hundred-year-old town.

      Worse when death occurred in the richly appointed Baylor Inn, the jewel of Southern hospitality in Indigo and smack-dab in the center of the historic old town. He could almost hear the mayor’s outrage at such an event occurring here and scaring the tourists.

      By the time Nash had arrived at the suite, the officers had already sealed off the floor and taken photographs. Unfortunately there were no witnesses to the crime. The victim had been locked in his suite and found by a member of the housekeeping staff in the morning.

      Nash took a sip of coffee from a paper cup so thin his fingers, encased in latex gloves, felt seared by the heat. He circumvented the room again. Antique dressers bore two hundred years of wear like an ancient king. The thick down comforter on the bed reminded him of how little sleep he’d had the night before. The body of the victim was sprawled across the wide mattress.

      Nash ignored it for a moment, his gaze picking through details that were not so obvious: the crystal tumbler with the dregs of a cocktail, the unopened briefcase neatly tucked under the desk. The air was filled with a revolting combination of death and the sweetness of flowers. Very little was out of place, no signs of a struggle. The sofa and stuffed chairs sat facing the hearth, and the only furniture that wasn’t an antique was an armoire holding the television and VCR. Resting on the lowboy was a sweet-grass basket filled with teas, packaged snacks, flavored coffees and a china mug only a woman would use. On the basket was a small brass oval engraved with “Enchanted Garden.” He frowned. Enchanted Garden was a nursery his brother Temple used in his landscaping business. Nash took account of the contents and gestured to an officer, who then bagged it.

      A look through the victim’s clothing hanging in the closet, shoes precisely two inches apart, socks arranged by color, told Nash that the victim was fanatical about his appearance. The remains on the room-service tray from the night before indicated he cared about what he ate, too. It was so healthy it made Nash cringe.

      Nash moved to the bathroom before examining the body again. His gaze sharpened at the evidence, sifting normal from unusual. The victim had bathed leisurely. His neatly arranged shaving gear and toiletries added to Nash’s initial feeling that the victim was picky about order. Several candles littered the edge of the tub, burned down to the nubs and dripping into the cold, cloudy bathwater. The mess contradicted what he’d seen so far. Then he leaned over the tub to lift what looked like a large teabag out of the water. Untying the ribbon that secured the thing to the faucet, he sniffed. So that was where the flower smell came from, he thought, lowering it into the evidence bag, then marking it. He handed the bag to an officer, then left the bathroom and returned to the suite. He stopped at the foot of the bed, staring at the victim.

      White male, perhaps thirty-five, naked except for a towel around his waist and the scarf wrapped around his throat. Muscular body even in death, stylish haircut, manicured nails.

      “Everything tagged and bagged?” Nash asked the patrol supervisor.

      “Except him,” the man said, then handed him the victim’s wallet as he walked past.

      Absently Nash slipped the wallet from the evidence bag, yet his attention, for the moment, was on the coroner.

      At the side of the bed, Quinn Kilpatrick examined the body. His thickly muscled arms strained against his jacket sleeves, and though Quinn was built like a linebacker, he handled the body as if it were fine porcelain.

      “What do you have for me?”

      “You cops, always impatient.” Quinn bagged the victim’s hands.

      “Hey, pillage and plunder, murder and mayhem, are going on as we speak. We have to go out and be heroes.”

      Quinn smirked, but didn’t glance up as he lifted the victim’s arm to look beneath. “Dead nine hours at least.”

      “The scarf?”

      Quinn eased the nearly transparent pale-green scarf from around the victim’s neck. “There are ligature marks, but they’re not really dark enough to indicate this was the cause of death. Maybe postmortem. No other signs of strangulation. I’ll know more when I get him into the lab.” Quinn straightened, frowning still. “See this?”

      “The rash?”

      “It’s not a rash, it’s a reaction.”

      “He didn’t have any medication, except vitamins, but he took a bath. Maybe it’s from whatever he added to the water?” Nash could still smell the flowery fragrance.

      Quinn started to put the scarf into an evidence bag, then frowned, smelling the fabric. He held it out to Nash, who moved near and inhaled.

      “Perfume.” Something caught in his gut. “That’s familiar.” And he knew exactly where he’d smelled the fragrance before. It was the one Lisa wore.

      Lisa Bracket… Oh, hell. Lisa Bracket Winfield. His gaze snapped to the ID, then the body.

      Peter David Winfield. Lisa’s husband. The man she married, instead of him. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he argued. Nash’d never asked her to marry him. After a year of dating steadily, he’d never told her he loved her, and when he said he didn’t want to get serious, she’d ended their relationship. A few months later she was dating Winfield, and Nash, like a jerk, cut her completely out of his life like a bad-tempered high-school jock the day before the prom. Six months later she was gone. And married. But she was in town, that much he knew from Temple. Alone. So why wasn’t she here with Winfield?

      He flipped through the wallet, and her familiar face stared back at him from a photo. It landed a punch right between the eyes.

      Lisa in her wedding dress.

      He closed his eyes briefly, remembering her face with four-year-old clarity, the feel of her body against his and what she did to him with just a look. Which was plenty. His mind was latched on to the memory of her last kiss when someone called his name.

      Nash, still trapped in the past, rubbed his face and looked up.

      “There’s a woman wanting to speak with you.”

      “Tell her she’ll have to wait.”

      “I think you should talk to her, sir.” The officer’s gaze shifted briefly to the body on the bed. “She’s the victim’s wife.”

      Nash’s features tightened, and he stepped into the hall, his gaze moving immediately to the barricade. Lisa stood beyond, an officer keeping her back.

      “Nash.”