The Ex. BEVERLY BARTON

glared at Quinn. “Considering you and Ms. Vanderley were lovers, you don’t seem too torn up about her death.”

      “I’m not the emotional type. I don’t fall apart in a crisis. If I did, I wouldn’t be the Quinn Cortez. But I’m not a completely heartless bastard.” Quinn looked Norton right in the eyes. “I cared about Lulu, as a friend. And as a lover. If I could change what happened to her, I would. But all I can do—all any of us can do now—is determine how she died. And if she was murdered, find the person responsible.”

      Norton eyed Quinn skeptically.

      “And no, lieutenant, I didn’t kill her. I had absolutely no motive.”

      Before Norton had a chance to respond, a man of probably fifty, with a receding hairline and a potbelly hanging over his belt, came into the room.

      “That you, Jim?” the man asked.

      Norton turned and nodded. “Yeah, it’s me. What have you got for us, Udell? Suicide? Accident? Murder?”

      Jim Norton. Jim Norton. Quinn repeated the name several times and suddenly a light clicked on inside his brain. Jim Norton, a running back for UT twenty years ago. That’s where Quinn had seen Norton. Norton had been star-athlete Griffin Powell’s teammate and best friend. The entire South— and that included Texas—had kept track of the two men who’d been destined to turn pro. Oddly enough, considering both had had NFL star quality written all over them, neither man had played professional football.

      “Murder,” the ME said. “Asphyxiation.”

      Quinn had suspected as much. When he had found Lulu lying there so peacefully, he’d desperately wanted to believe she wasn’t dead, that he could somehow save her. His first impulse had been to perform CPR, but when he’d lifted her right arm to check for a pulse and seen her bloody hand, he’d known that he had arrived too late. If only he hadn’t stopped for that damn nap, he might have gotten here in time to prevent her death.

      “There’s one other thing,” the ME said.

      “What’s that?” Jim Norton asked.

      “The index finger on her right hand was amputated Postmortem.”

      Annabelle Austin Vanderley was at her best playing hostess. It was a role she’d been born and bred to perform, as had generations of women in her family. Tonight’s gala event—a buffet supper to raise funds for the Christopher Knox Threadgill Foundation—hosted society’s elite from Mississippi, Alabama and several other surrounding states. Tickets had been a thousand dollars each and all proceeds went directly into the foundation that Annabelle had established ten years ago, shortly after her fiancé, Chris Threadgill, had become the victim of a nearly fatal car crash that left him a paraplegic. The foundation was dedicated not only to research, but also to assisting paralysis victims and their families. Not everyone was as fortunate as Chris had been—to have been born into a wealthy family who could afford to provide him with the best possible care.

      Almost two years had passed since Chris’s death and even now Annabelle found it difficult to accept that he was gone. She had made him the center of her life for many years, even though they had never married. His choice, not hers.

      Annabelle strolled from room to room in her uncle Louis’s antebellum mansion, where the charity supper was being held, checking on everything from the string quartet playing in the front parlor to the caterers working feverishly in the kitchen. She was the consummate hostess, with the ability to multitask with the aplomb of a juggler balancing half a dozen balls in the air at once. But this event was only one of three she had overseen this month—the other two being a circus for underprivileged kids and a Winner Takes All charity event at one of Biloxi’s many gambling casinos.

      At twenty-three, when she’d been planning her wedding to Chris, she had thought by the time she was thirty-four, she would be the mother of several children and the wife of either the governor or a senator. Chris had been destined to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s political footsteps. But instead of living her dream, she was still single, childless and filled her days—and as many nights as possible— with overseeing the various Austin and Vanderley philanthropic organizations.

      “You look lovely tonight, Annabelle,” her cousin, Wythe Vanderley, said as he came up behind her and slipped his arm around her waist.

      Annabelle froze to the spot. Then forcing a smile, she eased away from Wythe and turned to face him. “And you look handsome, as always.” Wythe was an attractive man, in an aristocratic way that drew women to him like moths to a flame. And most of those women—the ones who’d gotten too close to that flame—had been badly burned. Wythe was a scoundrel and despite their being first cousins, Annabelle disliked him intensely. He’d been a disappointment to Uncle Louis, who supported Wythe in grand style, as he did Wythe’s younger half sister, Lulu. To quote her aunt, Perdita Austin, “Neither of Louis’s children are worth a damn.”

      “Lovely but cold Annabelle,” Wythe said softly so that no one passing them in the hallway could overhear. “The right man could thaw you out and melt that frigid heart of yours.”

      “If you’ll excuse me, I have—”

      Before Annabelle could escape her annoying cousin, he grasped her wrist to halt her. She glared at him, her look demanding he release her immediately.

      “I’m volunteering for the job, you know,” he told her. “I’m just the man who could heat you—”

      “Unless you want to make a spectacle of yourself, I suggest you release me,” Annabelle said with absolute conviction. “Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to slap that smug look off your silly face.”

      He released her instantly, but leaned close and whispered, “One of these days, bitch, you’ll get yours.”

      She offered him a deadly smile. “Maybe so, but I won’t get it from you.”

      Annabelle rushed away as fast as she could walk without bringing undue attention to herself. If she didn’t adore Uncle Louis and feel tremendously sorry for him, she’d never come to this house again, never subject herself to her cousin’s harassment. As she made her way down the hall toward the dining room, intending to make sure everything was in order, she smiled and spoke to half a dozen acquaintances. Anna-belle knew everybody who was anybody and cultivated superficial friendships as easily as she performed her hostess duties.

      When she entered the dining room, her uncle Louis’s butler, Hiram, spoke her name quietly as he came to her side. “Miss Annabelle…”

      “Yes, Hiram, what is it?”

      “Sheriff Brody’s at the front door, ma’am, and he’s asked to speak to you.”

      “Sheriff Brody? Did he say what it’s about?” Had Wythe gotten in trouble again? Except for Uncle Louis’s wealth and political connections, Wythe would already be in prison for statutory rape. Everyone in the county knew Wythe Vanderley had a penchant for teenage girls. And a sick hunger for rough sex.

      “No, ma’am, but it can’t be good. He said it’s about Miss Lulu and he wanted to speak only to you.”

      How could something Lulu had done be of any concern to Sheriff Brody? Lulu had moved off to Memphis five years ago and was living in her mother’s old house there in Chickasaw Gardens, the house Uncle Louis had bought his ex-wife as part of their divorce settlement when Lulu was twelve.

      “Show Sheriff Brody into Uncle Louis’s study, please, Hiram, and take him around the back way. Tell him I’ll join him as soon as possible.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Whatever had brought the sheriff to their door, Annabelle didn’t want their guests to be aware of the lawman’s presence. After making her rounds through the dining room to check that the champagne was ready for the midnight toasts due to begin shortly, Annabelle discreetly slipped away and hurried to her uncle’s study. The minute she entered the room, Sheriff Brody, a stocky, middle-aged